


Abide

by luchia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Human, And we're talking canon-appropriate slow, Curse of Obedience, Just trust me guys I know where I'm going with this, M/M, Slow Burn, Spies as in surveillance agents not laser-hopping cool people, tropes galore, trust me - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-06-28 06:49:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19806931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/pseuds/luchia
Summary: Obedient 17-year-old Aziraphale works at a motel in the middle of nowhere, and Things Change Forever after he meets Crowley. There are so many ways things could've gone, but Crowley issoshady, and family obligations can control Aziraphale immediately, and nobody can walk away from their background, even with the ability to perform modern miracles. Not completely. Not without a lot of time, a lot of work, and a goal. Aziraphale wants something very, very badly, and has since an idiot with an ice bucket walked in when they were 17.There are a lot of ways things could've happened. We'll look at some of those too, but this one?ThisAziraphale? He's the one we need when their world is burning down.





	1. Inn the beginninggggg....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [seems appropriate](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rIbMbXjbW98)

Thousands of threads of possibility exist, an infinite number of potential lifetimes, and we want this one, right here. Why? It’s a long story.

Let’s start at the Garden of Eden.

A motel exists just off the highway in a nearly empty part of the state. Nowadays it’s nothing but one more closed down Americana mystery, but a couple decades back, it’s a small sleepy motel mostly used by tired truckers and road trippers. It has employees, but not many of them. The one we care about is Aziraphale, and (at this point) he is 17 years old.

Aziraphale works the graveyard shift, which is from midnight to 4am, Monday thru Saturday, because that’s when he can get access to a car. Everyone in his very large family has to get a job when they’re 16, and then they leave home at some point between 20 or 22 when their uncle or (very rarely) Mother visits, because That’s The Rules.

Yes, he is still expected to go to school in the morning. Yes, he is still expected to have a 4.0 GPA. Has he questioned this? No. Has he even realized there’s anything to question? Most assuredly no.

In general, working at the Garden of Eden is probably the happiest part of his day, as it consists almost entirely of being left alone with his library books and a stock room full of mini-bar items that the owner (who he has never actually met) seems to never take inventory of, _ever._ For Aziraphale, a job where he sits alone in an office getting tipsy on mini-schnapps while reading Dickens is a truly wonderful experience. It is quiet unless he puts on music, and it is calm unless someone comes in. There have been nights where he simply shuts the lights off and puts the “CLOSED” sign up and spends his shift in the back room doing whatever he wants, blissfully alone.

On this particular night - a Wednesday, two nights before Things Change Forever - it does not stay quiet, because a boy walks in. He’s around Aziraphale’s age. He has an English accent, which is weird. Other than himself and a few of his other siblings, it’s the first Aziraphale has heard in real life. He is also wearing sunglasses at a moonless 2am, which could be why the boy doesn’t seem to register anything about Aziraphale beyond ‘someone behind the counter’ until he’s well into his question. “Hello, I was looking for an ice bucket but only...huh.”

There’s a strangely tense silence that comes after Sunglasses Boy trails off, staring at Aziraphale. Aziraphale finds himself staring right back, which is unexpected, particularly since Aziraphale doesn’t like dealing with people all that much. Actually _wanting_ to look at someone is new, right along with the odd sort of not-quite-nice queasy heat sensation that comes along with it.

“Do you work at this motel?” Sunglasses Boy asks.

Aziraphale, who is wearing a collared shirt that has the words _Garden of Eden_ stenciled on the entirety of the front in the same exact design as the neon sign outside, is so flustered that he has to look down at his nametag to double-check the answer. “Yes.”

“Oh,” Sunglasses Boy says. After an indeterminable amount of time spent staring at each other in a tense silence that is both enthralling and horrific, the boy adds, “I don’t. Work here, I mean. Is it nice?”

“I don’t mind it,” Aziraphale says. His voice is oddly high.

All of this would’ve been much easier if Aziraphale had known that being gay is an option that exists. The idea of homosexuality had occasionally popped up in literature, certainly, but there was something very different from reading an epic ancient romance and seeing a (weird) hot boy and being attracted to them. It also would’ve been easier if the weird hot boy had known it was the _hot_ part causing all the staring, not the _weird_ one. But times are what they are, and that’s why the entire encounter is a good 10 minutes of no substance that eventually ends with a flustered-into-mindlessness Aziraphale handing the boy 4 empty ice buckets and then hiding in the stock room until the bell on the door announces his exit.

It could be argued that _this_ was when Things Change Forever. The argument would be 100% correct on Crowley’s side, but for Aziraphale, if that had been the end of things, life would’ve continued on in the same dragging and unquestioned manner. Most of his timelines do. His future would land him an adequate scholarship at the local state university, he would’ve received a degree in accounting along with his first boyfriend, and his life would’ve been generally quiet. Quiet, unquestioned, and ignored.

Instead, this is what happens.

Two days later. Friday, 12:17 AM. Aziraphale is late to work. He parks the family’s old and distressingly red sedan in front of the office and hurries in. There are two other cars in the lot. One has been there since Wednesday. The other is new, a speedy sleek sort of thing.

12:19 AM. Aziraphale has barely calmed his heart down from the rush to work, only for it to turn into a turbo-charged catastrophe when the bell chimes and Sunglasses Boy walks in, still wearing sunglasses but now also a very meticulously put together outfit. He actually reads Aziraphale’s name tag this time, and says, “Hello, Aziraphale, my name is Crowley. Are you busy tonight?”

“This is my job and I’m at work, so yes,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley shrugs. “But it’s only me. If I’m the only person staying here, and you’re with me, you’d still be doing your job. Attending guests and so on.”

The argument is extremely practiced. Aziraphale is too flustered and still busy figuring out this ‘attraction’ thing to notice.

“Well. Possibly. But you’re not,” Aziraphale says because it’s easier than trying to comprehend logic when Crowley is moving towards him. The moving stops with Crowley looking legitimately confused, so Aziraphale points out the window. “You’re not the only guest.”

Lo and behold, there is still a third car.

“When did someone else get here?” Crowley asks with a frown.

Aziraphale checks the books. “Two people, actually. They checked in around 11. You didn’t notice?”

“I was busy. Who are they?”

He really shouldn’t, but Aziraphale reads the entry anyway, “Adam and Eve. No last name, requested to not be disturbed.”

“Not an hourly room rental?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale huffs out something close to a laugh. “If someone asks for hourly room rental, they’ll be out in under 20 minutes.” There is a look of startled delight on Crowley’s face that makes Aziraphale’s chest do _things_ that he hasn’t ever had to wonder about before. “I work at a roadside motel, Crowley, do you think I don’t know what some people do here?”

“I hoped you know,” Crowley says. The not particularly subtle smirk and eyebrow-raise that accompanies the statement are completely lost on Aziraphale. “But if they’ve requested not to be disturbed, that means you should ignore them and come hang out with me, the other guest who is requesting your presence.”

“It definitely does not mean that,” Aziraphale says flatly.

Crowley shrugs. “It could if you wanted it to.”

Aziraphale frowns. “If I what?”

“If you wanted it to.” Crowley repeats, slightly slower. It doesn’t take Crowley long to pick up that the problem isn’t Aziraphale’s hearing, it’s his actual understanding of the concept. “You can choose to do things you want instead of doing what you’re told. Plus in this case it’s not even going against what you’re told to do, it’s just a little bit of creative reinterpretation.”

“I could lose my job if someone found out!”

Crowley very very pointedly looks out the windows - an empty road attached to an empty highway in the middle of nowhere. There’s a gas station on the other side of the highway, but it’s so overpriced that only the desperate use it. Other than Adam and Eve, tucked away in the most distant motel room, it’s just Aziraphale and Crowley, like nobody else even exists.

But the choice to rebel, to _disobey,_ is a momentous one to make, particularly such a knowing version of it. There is no impulse to it, no thrill of the moment he could blame if he’s caught somehow.

“Or we can stay here,” Crowley says with a nice reassuring smile.

If, instead, Crowley had offered a hand and a more explicit offer, or if he’d raised his eyebrows and simply said he’d be in his room and left Aziraphale to make his choice, their lives would’ve gone a very different way. But this is what Crowley does: he makes it easier. He offers to stay here, in the office. He pulls one of the terrible ratty armchairs around to behind the desk without waiting for an invitation. He smiles at Aziraphale, and makes it so very easy for Aziraphale to simply ask how his day has been.

Crowley doesn’t stop flirting, but he goes from semi-subtle propositioning to amiable friendly conversation that Aziraphale finds so engaging that, instinctively, he ends up flirting back.

They speak for an hour. Two hours. Aziraphale can’t remember the last time he laughed so hard, can’t remember the last time he had this much _fun_ just from being with someone else.

It’s 2:42 AM. Just a few minutes to go.

“Can you believe there’s a completely untended stock of alcohol in the back? Teeny tiny bottles nobody counts. They simply buy more every month and don’t question if some of them go missing,” Aziraphale says, and the delight on Crowley’s face has Aziraphale up and out of his chair before he even thinks through what he’s doing. He walks into the back, bringing Crowley along on pure instinct even though, intellectually, he knows it’s a small room. Maybe deep down that’s why he does it.

“Do you mean to tell me you regularly steal from your place of work? And then _get drunk_ at work?” Crowley asks, delight ratcheting up to a whole new level when Aziraphale blushes but still doesn’t hesitate to hand him a fun-sized bottle of cheap wine. “Oh, you really are a pure obedient angel, aren’t you.”

Aziraphale hasn’t had so much as a sip of alcohol, but he still stumbles like a buffoon trying to get at one of the pretzel boxes. It would be a lovely stereotypical romance if Crowley caught him, swept him up. Aziraphale even absentmindedly fantasizes about it as he hits the concrete below.

Instead of catching him, or trying to help him up, Crowley laughs and drops down to join him on the floor. Aziraphale _tries_ to scowl at him, but it’s infectious. He’s laughing too. They’re laughing, and...and then they’re not. Then they’re staring at each other. Crowley is very close to him, he’s _so close,_ and Aziraphale feels so completely dazed that he barely realizes the idea _Crowley is closer_ is in fact being caused by Aziraphale himself leaning towards him. Not until he’s nearly nose to nose.

“Take the sunglasses off,” Aziraphale says. Whispers, really. He can barely hear over his own pulse.

Crowley pulls them off so quickly that it makes seeing his eyes for the first time even more jarring. And the sunglasses make sense, now. They’re human eyes, but the irises are such a brilliant yellow-gold that it almost distracts away from the scars, like someone once tried to cut his eyelids in half. If Aziraphale wasn’t so obsessively focused on seeing him, he might’ve missed it entirely.

“What happened?” Aziraphale asks.

The only reason Crowley gives an honest answer - the _only one,_ honestly - must be the way Aziraphale runs a hand through Crowley’s hair. It’s so soft. “Bad people didn’t like me paying attention.”

There is a very large part of Aziraphale that wants to swear to take care of Crowley for the rest of eternity, because he is 17 and a nose’s width away from his first kiss.

The only thing that stops him is The Moment.

It’s very hard to ignore the sound of gunshots.

There is no embrace less alluring or romantic than one performed in the name of pulling someone as low to the ground as possible for the sake of survival. (Not to anyone normal, at least, and Crowley has never claimed to be normal. Aziraphale has tried to be normal for years, so he’s actually capable of action rather than lying on the ground like Crowley, who is distracted by tipping that final bit into being wholly and completely in love with someone.)

“You tried to save me,” Crowley gasps while Aziraphale listens for more gunshots, but they don’t come. He stands up, and drags Crowley up with him. When Crowley doesn’t pull his hand away, Aziraphale doesn’t either. The other boy is more than willing to be dragged along back to the desk.

Like any reasonable human being, Aziraphale grabs the phone and calls 911. The second he hears a calm friendly voice asking what’s the emergency, he says, “Yes, hello, there’s been gunshots at-”

Crowley grabs the phone out of his hand, eyes wide and frantic as he picks up with, “-your mom! Ha ha, teenagers, jokes, goodbye.” And hangs up. Aziraphale is too shocked to do anything but gape, indignant, as Crowley takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes. “This is a talk I did _not_ expect needing to have, but I’m fairly certain that the car I was told to watch has cocaine in it. As in _bulk shipment_ of cocaine. They don’t pay people to babysit parked cars in the middle of nowhere on another continent if it’s not worth a good bit of money. And if there are cops-”

 _“It has_ **_What?!”_ ** Aziraphale shouts at a volume almost as deafening as guns.

“I’m not sure it’s cocaine! That’s just my guess! It might have the Mona Lisa in the back for all I know, I’ve learned not to ask questions, alright?” Crowley says, desperation clear in his voice. “All I know is it’s valuable and it’s going to be picked up by a man with a frog on his head.”

“God, Crowley, what sort of life do you live?” Aziraphale asks.

“Well what about _you,_ with a job as a night clerk when you’re still in high school! How much sleep do you get?”

Aziraphale feels as if he’s losing his mind. “I think there’s a bit of a difference between overworking yourself and _having cocaine in the back of your car!"_

“It’s not _my_ car with theoretical cocaine in it, it’s a theoretical cocaine car I’m _watching,_ ” Crowley says, like that makes everything just fine.

Aziraphale puts a hand to his forehead, and then to his mouth, looking around through the windows. No bullet holes in the windows, no visible murderous gun-havers, and Crowley’s cocaine car looks perfectly fine, still parked in the same place it has been for the past few days.

There is, however, glass strewn out across the concrete next to the broken window that belongs to a room that isn't Crowley’s. No, it belongs to Adam and Eve, the non-hourly Do Not Disturb couple.

“I don’t think this is about the cocaine,” Aziraphale says, and it is _definitely_ a bad idea but he still finds himself grabbing the room key and then heading out the office door and straight for the room. Crowley is directly behind him, and Aziraphale would probably (quite wisely) turn back and call 911 again if it was any other circumstance. But this way, he...well, he wants to be brave. Maybe a bit impressive. It’s not a long walk to the door, but he clears his throat, turning the key over and over in his hand. “Okay. Alright. So. The key goes in the lock, and I’ll-”

Crowley steps forward, takes the key out of Aziraphale’s hands, and slips it into the lock. There’s the audible shift of the lock sliding into place, and then Crowley is - oh heavens. He kicks the door. Not very well, considering he stumbles and has to catch himself on the doorframe, but he kicks it hard enough that when it jerks open the doorknob slams into the wall with enough force that Aziraphale _knows_ the drywall needs a good patching now.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Aziraphale scolds.

(Inaudible, Crowley mutters, “But it was cool.” This nullified what little coolness remained from his act of property damage.)

Any thoughts of the effort to fix the wall vanish when he sees the scene inside. A man’s body - at least three gunshot wounds - is slumped at the base of the room’s window. Adam, he assumes.

Eve is sitting on the edge of the bed, bleeding from a viciously swollen lip, staring into nothing. The gun is still clenched between her hands but thankfully pointed towards the floor. She’s pregnant, and injured, muttering to herself, and clearly in shock. That’s probably the only reason Crowley didn’t get their heads shot off with his little stunt.

Carefully, _carefully,_ Aziraphale slowly makes his way over to her, and kneels to be at eye level without getting into her personal space.

“Hello,” Aziraphale says, and there’s no response. He clears his throat, and is louder this time. “Hello?”

“I wasn’t made for you,” Eve is whispering. “I wasn’t made for you, I don’t belong to you, I’m not a part of you, I’m not-”

“He’s not going to hurt you anymore,” Aziraphale says. “Could you hand me the gun, please?”

“I don’t think he’ll stop, he never stops,” Eve whispers.

It’s Crowley who replies, with an odd conviction. “He’s dead, and he deserved it. Well done. You should hand Aziraphale the gun if you don’t want to shoot the corpse a few more times for good measure.” Crowley pauses. “Honestly, I’d like to shoot him a few times myself. In some strategic places.”

That wakes her up enough to blink and look around. Eve gasps, and drops the gun. It lands on the carpet with an anticlimactic thud. “Oh god, I killed him, I killed him, oh god, oh god-”

“He deserved it,” Crowley says again, and moves over, picking the gun off the floor. He takes it apart with the casual familiarity like disassembling an old lego creation, and then walks into the bathroom with the harmless-looking remains.

“Eve?” Aziraphale tries, and it seems to be her real name, since she looks up at him. Or there’s the horrifying idea that she’s been trained to reply to it. But she actually _looks_ at him, and Aziraphale smiles for her. “Hello there. It’s going to be okay.”

“It won’t, it won’t, his parents will be so mad and they’ll never let me go, never forgive me,” Eve says. “They’ll do everything they can to make me pay.”

“For doing the right thing?” Crowley asks from the bathroom, indignant. “No, Eve. Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of this, won’t we, angel?”

“Of _course_ we’re going to help,” Aziraphale says, almost offended that Crowley felt the need to ask.

“So I’ll clean the room up, Aziraphale will get you somewhere safe until we can figure all of this out, and soon it’ll be like this never happened.”

There is something _off_ about that, but Aziraphale is too swept up in the idea of helping her that he instead sticks on, “I don’t think I could get to school on time if I take her somewhere.” He turns his attention on Eve again. She’s clearly incredibly shaken, but there’s a strength deep in there that’s slowly surfacing. And over it all is the silent begging, _please help, please, please, I don’t know what to do_ -

“Two people can clean faster than one,” Aziraphale finds himself saying, and he can see her heart _breaking_ , hope leaving just as swiftly as it had come, and it is pure empathetic instinct when Aziraphale reaches into his pocket and pulls his car keys out and hands them over. “Take my car and drive. It’s the big red one by the office. Just keep going, and don’t stop until you feel like you can breathe again. Okay?”

“Thank you,” Eve whispers, and without anything else, with _nothing_ else, still bruised and bleeding and with no money or form of identification, she takes Aziraphale’s keys and leaves. He can hear the engine start up, hear the tires of _his family’s car_ squeal as she frantically tears out of the parking lot and down the on-ramp and races down the highway, eastbound.

Aziraphale is so busy watching the car (and also Eve, he supposes) drive away that he doesn’t notice Crowley until the other boy is right next to him, and sounds terribly amused when he asks, “Did you just give her your car?”

He nods.

“Is it even your car?”

Aziraphale very emphatically shakes his head no. “But she...she needs it. More.”

(And Crowley knows from their conversation that his big weird family will be _furious._ Crowley is familiar with that feeling. He understands the _strength_ it takes to deal with that, and Aziraphale is finding the strength to do it for the sake of some woman he’s never really spoken with but knew needed help, and that’s when Crowley being in love with him ascends to a devotion that time and distance and separation can never erode.)

There’s a pause, but Crowley says, “She does. You did a good thing.”

He certainly hopes so. And he stares a while longer before he says, “She really does, it’s a miracle we were here to help.”

“Well look at us, making miracles. Do you realize were staring off towards where the car went for about 20 minutes?”

“Oh god, have I?” Aziraphale asks, and jerks around and yes, Crowley has definitely been working hard for the past however long. There’s not a trace of Eve’s presence left in the room, as far as Aziraphale can tell. Police with forensics and things like that could probably notice otherwise, but they’re also in a poor remote area that doesn’t exactly deal with murder mysteries regularly. Still, Aziraphale is impressed. “Well you certainly seem to have it in hand without me.”

“I do. There’s something else I need help with,” Crowley says, and when Aziraphale looks him in the eye, curious, it’s clear the sunglasses aren’t just for avoiding questions about eye colors and subtle scarring. His face is mostly still, but his bright gold eyes are very expressive, and very anxious. “While I was cleaning, I thought of a solution to _multiple_ problems, but it would mean you’d need to do something a bit...illicit.”

“Then the answer is no.”

Crowley rolls his eyes like the 17-year-old he is. “You didn’t even hear what it is yet!”

“I already gave a free mini-bar drink to a minor _and_ helped with a murder cover-up, that is my crime limit for the night,” Aziraphale says firmly.

“I love the order you put those in,” Crowley says, and is clearly cheating because he is doing a...a looking at Aziraphale thing. With affection. It’s so bad that Aziraphale feels a little faint and is tempted to run off, grab the stupid sunglasses, and _demand_ he put them back on.

Aziraphale quickly looks away before he dies. “Fine. Tell me about the crime.”

“Well, here’s what I’m envisioning we could say happened tonight - and for the past few days, really,” Crowley says, and gestures for Aziraphale to follow him out into the parking lot. Apparently Crowley is going to gesture so broadly he needs more open space. But no, instead he’s pointing at the two remaining cars. “Three days ago, Adam showed up along with _this_ car. Not his actual car.”

“What? You want me to say he drove the cocaine car?” Aziraphale asks.

“It’s not - you know what? Here. Let’s just look,” Crowley says, and walks over to the cocaine car, pulling keys out of his pocket. But when he gets to the point of unlocking the trunk, he immediately freezes, as if his body won’t even let him move anymore.

Aziraphale is smart enough to put the reaction together with the scars Crowley earned by _paying attention_. He’s also put together those scars plus why someone would choose him for a job like this, but Aziraphale isn’t going to ask Crowley if he was...forcibly educated for the purpose of doing things like this without looking. It’s early days in their relationship, after all.

“My turn, then,” Aziraphale says, and takes over. He takes the key, and it’s a matter of moments before the trunk is open and they’re looking at four big black duffel bags. Ominously brick-shaped duffel bags. Crowley is dead silent next to him, still as a statue, so Aziraphale takes the plunge for Crowley’s sake more than his own. He unzips the middle bag.

It’s cash.

“Oh good lord,” Aziraphale breathes out, because it’s stacks upon stacks upon _stacks_ of $100 bills, enough to fill not one duffel bag, but _four._ Aziraphale feels about ready to faint, his mind unable to even parse out a semblance of how much money is in front of him. He unzips the other bags, just to be sure - same thing. Money. Lots and lots of money. Lots and lots and _lots and lots of money._

“That’s at least twenty million dollars,” Crowley says, shocked out of the stillness, and then clears his throat after staring a bit. “Well. Maybe a bit of a change to the plan now. But the idea is that dead Adam is actually a dead Crowley and there was no Adam and Eve to begin with. All you have to do is erase their entry in the logs and change my reservation’s room number to theirs. Do that, and we drive off into the sunset with millions of dollars.”

Aziraphale turns with a frown. “We?”

“Just an idea,” Crowley says very, very quickly. “But you do at least need a way to get to school, what with the car situation. I could drop you off on my way out.”

“Drop me off at high school in a car with millions of dollars in the back?”

 _"Or_ we take the money and run, see where the road takes us,” Crowley offers. Again. “Maybe we could even get your car back. We could buy Eve a brand new one and exchange it.”

“I’m not going to run off with dirty money,” Aziraphale objects.

Crowley then asks, “What about with just me?”

“I have _finals_ soon!” Aziraphale shouts.

“Yes, okay. That’s fine. Very responsible and reasonable,” Crowley says in a rush, and swiftly zips the bags back up, closes the trunk, and pockets the car key. “But if you change the logbook-”

“That’s not what it’s called.”

“-the _whatever,_ I’ll give you a share. A _fair_ share. And it’ll be discreet, and nobody needs to know. I get to leave a life you can already tell isn’t exactly great, the man with a frog on his head never gets this money to do who knows what with it. I know you want to help people. You can spend the rest of your life never worrying about bills and able to throw around as many generous little miracles as you can imagine. And all you have to do is delete one record and edit another.”

Aziraphale scowls at the car. “Fine, yes, I’d like to do good in the world, but that’s not right. Money isn’t miracles.”

“Nowadays, it’s as close as humans get,” Crowley says.

It’s terrible, and true, and Aziraphale hates it. But god, that’s an awful lot of help he could give.

“The plan falls apart the second whoever is on day shift comes in,” Aziraphale says, trying very hard to grab something, _anything_.

“I know. I’m already planning for that to be _my_ first miracle,” Crowley says, and pats the top of the not-actually-full-of-cocaine car. “Day shift first, then the police, and we’re fine. Just like magic.”

They finally reach a humiliating but morally acceptable compromise. Aziraphale puts in all the passwords, and then makes Crowley push all the buttons. The _delete_ one in particular. It’s Aziraphale who pushes _Y_ when the _Save changes? Y/N_ prompt appears, though.

“Thank you,” Crowley says. Or the boy who _was_ Crowley, perhaps? Except...hm.

Aziraphale logs back in, and changes all the _Crowley_ entries to _Adam Crowley._ It still has to be Crowley’s name, but this way they’ll hopefully focus on the name Adam.

“...Aziraphale?”

“Hm? Sorry, I was changing your name so I don’t have to hear about you being dead,” he says. And that just makes him change it in more places. “Adam Crowley. Much more pleasant to hear about a dead Adam. It’s a terrible name.”

When Aziraphale looks up again, Crowley is watching him with that _affectionate_ look again. “Let me at least drop you off at school.”

“Why?”

“So I get to spend more time with you,” Crowley answers.

Aziraphale blinks up at him from his seat, and his mind finally, _finally_ actually registers the fact that Crowley has repeatedly and explicitly asked him to run away with him so they can be rich and free and together forever.

But he has finals soon. And his family would _not_ like that. Not one bit.

“Okay. To school,” Aziraphale says. For his own sake, he fetches Crowley’s sunglasses for him. It may also be for Crowley’s sake, too, considering the day shift should be arriving soon and there’s a chance Crowley really does need sunglasses when there’s actual sun. Abnormally colored eyes could mean greater light sensitivity.

It takes a good 30 minutes to get to his high school. The duration is incredibly pleasant, just more conversation with the occasional everything-screeches-to-a-halt moment when one of them remembers there’s a stolen $20,000,000 in the back. But even with that, every minute is a joy. His stress load feels ten times lighter than ever before, just from spending time with Crowley.

When they get to the school, Crowley says, “You know, I dropped out when I was 14. It’s good you’re sticking with it.”

“Well what else would I do?” Aziraphale asks, puzzled.

“Whatever you want to do. That’s my plan.”

Aziraphale frowns even more deeply. “What do you want, then?”

There were a few ways that answer could’ve gone.

The most honest of these would be Crowley says _to be with you,_ and Aziraphale panics because his brain and heart can’t process that in the least bit and he responds _no thank you_ and trips his way out of the car with a frantic mumbled goodbye and they don’t see each other for another decade.

The most courageous of these would be Crowley simply moves forward and kisses Aziraphale, soft and tender until Aziraphale finally fully and completely understands _yes, this is what you want, and yes, you really_ **_really_ ** _want it_ , at which point seatbelts are quickly unbuckled, and then actual belts are unbuckled, and two overexcited 17 year olds get the cops called on them for public indecency in a high school parking lot, and then they get arrested for having $20,000,000 in the back of their stolen car and also a dead body mysteriously labeled with (almost) one of their names at a nearby motel, and then they spend the next 4 years in jail together. But at least they get to kiss more.

What actually happens is that Crowley gives this answer:

“Oh, travel, see the world, find out what trouble I can get up to,” Crowley says, and smiles at Aziraphale. “I’ll send you postcards. Maybe plane tickets too, if I find something really interesting.”

And Aziraphale, flustered in a very pleasant blushing-but-not-uncomfortable way, smiles back and says, “I’d like that.”

He gets out of the car, and nearly trips on the stairs because he’s so busy turning around to look one last time, just _one last time,_ until it really is the last. Crowley waves, smile too distant for Aziraphale to see how bittersweet it is, and Aziraphale gives his final wave back before walking through the heavy doors and is shut back inside his normal life.


	2. Pomp, Pride, and Circumstance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is Pomp and Circumstance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t1QvzyY8ZsU). It's a cover, but that's the very memorable and extensively played song.

Aziraphale, in all his years, had never quite realized how boring his life actually is. It’s boring and difficult after Everything Changed, and sometimes he thinks about the new and uncomfortable awareness he has when it comes to obedience. Crowley may not have fully and completely tempted him into doing...well, quite a few things, but he certainly opened Aziraphale’s eyes to the option of them.

He finishes finals. He finishes 11th grade, and is already a few months into 12th when he finally hears from Crowley again. Or hears from a representative sent by Crowley, at least.

One October afternoon, a man with an expensive suit and an old-fashioned briefcase is waiting outside the doors of his high school with a neatly printed sign that just says _Aziraphale._ There are whispers and mutterings about it, of course. There have been whispers and muttering about him ever since a stranger dropped him off at school. Not much else to do in town beyond gossip and theorize about classmates, after all.

But Aziraphale straightens his spine, trying to force himself into courage as he walks over and says, “I’m Aziraphale.”

“You certainly match the description,” the man says with a bright smile. “I’m here about your account. Is it true you recently reached legal adulthood?”

“I don’t know about _recently_ , but yes,” Aziraphale says. His birthday was two months ago. He’d received three bargain bin books from the local grocery store for his birthday present, one of which was a guide on wine tasting that kept referring to things like _as seen in Lesson 4_. After the car debacle, it was more than he expected.

“Good! That means you now have access to your accounts, although I’d strongly suggest you leave the investments and larger accounts to experts for now. We recommend professional money management to anyone with accounts of these sizes-”

“Could we speak a bit more privately, please?” Aziraphale asks with a tight smile, and the money person cheerily agrees and leads him over to a very nice car waiting in the almost constantly empty Visitor Parking area. When he gets inside and the doors are shut, Aziraphale jumps to the most important question. “Did Crowley send you?”

“Anthony J. Crowley is the other name on the investment account, yes,” the man confirms with an easy smile. Aziraphale didn’t know the rest of his name. “Which is another reason I’d suggest you leave the funds where they are. Your partner may not have access for another month or so, but he will eventually, and it’s...well, money can split apart relationships.”

“I see.”

“It’s all split equally,” the man says, and opens his briefcase to pull out a pen and an inch-thick stack of paper. It’s an awkward sort of maneuver, considering the steering wheel and the size of his impressive-looking briefcase, but he narrowly avoids honking the horn at the lingering eavesdroppers. “The basic account information is on the first page.”

The first page must mean after the cover page, which reads FINANCIAL SUMMARY AND REPORT, followed by Aziraphale and Crowley’s names and the date, as well as a date on _Account Created_. It’s been nearly 4 months.

Aziraphale flips the page, and is once again looking at very big numbers he has trouble truly understanding because they are so very big.

He has a bit of trouble understanding what the account names mean, too. 

> INVESTMENTS: $12,784,226.97
> 
> SAVINGS: $4,662,937.31
> 
> ANGELIC MIRACLE FUND (Checking account 1): $2,341,887.61
> 
> DEMONIC MIRACLE FUND (Checking account 2): $2,208,950.23
> 
> TOTAL: $21,998,002.12

It is so much money.

“Oh, and there’s this,” the man adds, and fumbles with the briefcase again, pulling out an envelope and handing it over. The bank man is still looking through things when Aziraphale opens the envelope and starts to open - has to _catch things_ , actually, two wallet-sized items spilling out from a brief handwritten note.

The heavier one is a white credit card that is so obnoxiously fancy that it feels more like metal than plastic and has the outline of golden wings etched onto it, with what looks like _actual gold_ inlaid. Aziraphale’s name is printed onto it, letters raised and just the slightest bit darker.

The other is a picture of Crowley.

Any picture with this good of lighting and framing must be done by a professional photographer, or a spectacular hobbyist. It _looks_ like a true candid smile, even if there’s no way it could be with a professional involved. Probably. But Crowley looks very...well, he looks very nice and is smiling and still has his sunglasses on and probably should’ve buttoned his shirt up a bit more but - well, what’s done is done. No point in complaining about it.

The note is relatively brief. _I have to lay low for a while longer, but I’ve been thinking long-term for us. Hopefully you are too. Be sure to let the bank know about any change of address information so future items don’t go to the wrong place. x_

When he looks up from the letter and picture and fancy credit card, the bank man has a pen and one more set of papers. “Legalities now.”

Aziraphale spends the next two hours sitting in a stranger’s car going over and then signing contracts of a wide variety. Almost all of them have Aziraphale signing above, below, adjacent, or somewhere near Crowley’s already-present signature. The only ones that don’t are Checking Account 1, the Angelic Miracle Fund, which is wholly dedicated to Aziraphale’s usage and _only_ Aziraphale’s usage. He does a very good job of not rolling his eyes at Crowley’s account names.

He sets up a PIN and a few other details, and in no time at all, Aziraphale is a multi-millionaire.

“The number for your personal concierge line is printed on the back of your card,” bank man tells him at the very end. The parking lot is nearly empty, and the cars that remain belong to people soon to finish their after-school activities. “All you need to do is call and say what you need, and we’ll make it happen. Is there anything else I can help with right now?”

“Well, my bus is gone,” Aziraphale points out. Bank man doesn’t even flinch at being asked to taxi Aziraphale back home, although he makes a comment about how there are plenty of reputable car dealers in the area. And when the bank man leaves, and Aziraphale stands at the front gate of the house he shares with 18 other siblings, he finds himself thinking about Crowley’s suggestion that he should do what he _wants_ rather than what he’s told.

But what does he want?

Aziraphale watches the sun set, and thinks about that question. He thinks about it for a long, long time.

He thinks about that question for another 6 months.

Aziraphale is slated to graduate high school, and he was responsible about things so he has a modest scholarship to Northwestern State. He’s been accepted to another couple colleges out of state as well, but he has no school clubs or activities, only his good (but not great) test scores and straight A grades and some lukewarm but approving letters of recommendation. On paper and applications, Aziraphale is a quiet, simple, and dedicated young scholar.

It’s easier to do what he’s expected to do, so he accepts the offer from Northwestern and is going along with the plan set before him. It’s a solid choice. It’s an easy choice.

Or it is until graduation, at least. Because his high school graduation is when he next sees Crowley.

Everyone is lined up on the football field, a rented stage set up at the 50 yard line. Aziraphale’s graduating class is a total of 68 people, so it’s not a terribly long ceremony, and it’s not a very loud one either. Families cheer, but Aziraphale has been in _serious_ trouble ever since the whole car thing so only seven of his family members come, and they’re the ones who know other people graduating.

When he walks across the stage, his family still claps for him, the rest of the people still applaud politely, but there is also a voice both foreign and familiar that is cheering loud enough to be on the cusp of obnoxious. Aziraphale nearly forgets what he’s doing, steps veering closer to the front of the stage so he can try to see where Crowley is because _what is he doing here_ , and he knows it’s Crowley, even from wordless shouting.

The principal, who is holding his diploma and standing a good five feet away from where Aziraphale’s feet took him, has to hiss-shout Aziraphale’s name to get him back on track. And the crowd laughs, and it’s horrible, and Aziraphale shakes the appropriate hands and gets off the stage and back into a chair as quickly as possible. His (former) classmates snicker and laugh when he sits.

And it’s embarrassing but his mind can’t dwell on it because _Crowley is here, when did he get here_ , Aziraphale hasn’t seen him for over a year now other than that ridiculous picture he has hidden in his wallet. Is he done ‘laying low’, whatever that meant? Why didn’t Crowley tell him he’d be here? Why didn’t he ask if he was even invited?

Oh, Aziraphale has _not_ ignored the fact Crowley thought he was watching over a trunk full of cocaine and didn’t seem to have any problems with it. Or knew how to clean up a gun and a murder scene, and how to bribe the police, and is generally not a good person, and also somehow knows how to invest over twenty million dollars, which is already closer to twenty-four with interest and earnings and whatever it is Crowley keeps adding into the account, and how are they going to pay the taxes on everything? That’s going to be so much tax they need to pay. And Crowley seems like a _textbook example_ of a natural tax-dodger and then the IRS will come after them and - oh dear, he missed the hat throwing.

Hats are flying, tassels trailing like kite tails on a windless morning as gravity drops the graduation mortarboards back to the ground. Aziraphale’s stays on his head. Hat-flinging means dismissal, though, so he leaves his former classmates to hugging and celebration and heads out into the crowd of folding chairs that spectators were expected to bring for themselves.

It’s very easy to find Crowley because he’s dressed in all black and everyone is trying to not stare at the single stranger at graduation. And when Crowley sees Aziraphale, he grins and waves Aziraphale over before reaching for a (black) bag on the ground.

“You could’ve said you’re coming,” Aziraphale says when he’s close enough to be heard over the crowd.

“How, call your house and try to get through twenty other people? Sent someone from the bank again? You really need to get a phone, otherwise it’s just going to be a cycle of surprise visits,” Crowley says. His hair is a little longer.

Because it is a couple decades ago, Aziraphale scoffs. “No teenager needs their own phone, Crowley.”

“You’re a high school graduate with legal adult status and someone who wants to talk to you,” Crowley says. “And _just_ you, not one of your thousands of siblings over there.”

“There’s 19 of us.”

Crowley stops rummaging so he can turn, gape, and ask, _“How?”_

“Well, most of us are adopted, from all around the world. That’s why we all look and sound so different. And there’s always this many of us because our parents keep adopting more children,” Aziraphale says, bemused. “There’s a reason I could only work the night shift. I couldn’t get a car any other time of day. We have - _had_ three of them for 20 people.”

“20?” Crowley asks. “Not 21?”

“Mother is...absent,” Aziraphale says, because it’s the easiest explanation he can think up. Her actions are unknowable, unexplainable - she’s there, but she’s not. She’s...she’s _Mother_. She is usually not present, but her command, her _presence_ is always known, both above and below everything in the household.

“Oh.” Instead of prodding like he clearly wants to, almost physically fidgeting with the need to do it, Crowley drops the topic and focuses on the bag again. “Ready for your present?”

Aziraphale blinks. “Present?”

“For graduation, yes. It’s an achievement, and you deserve a present,” Crowley says, and pulls a box out of the bag, about the size of a particularly soul-destroying textbook. It’s maroon and closed with a maroon ribbon tied in a flower-looking bow and there’s a language on the top that Aziraphale doesn’t know. When Aziraphale just stands there looking down at the box, not even taking it, Crowley sighs and does it himself. The flower falls apart, ribbon dropping to the ground as Crowley pops the top off the box.

Inside are the prettiest pieces of candy Aziraphale has ever seen. Most of them look like chocolate, but Aziraphale isn’t sure what some of the others even are. He grabs one that looks like a tiny hard cupcake, pops it into his mouth and _oh god_ , it’s so good, it’s _so good_ , he almost doesn’t want to swallow. It’s raspberry fudge inside a thick chocolate shell covered in vanilla ganache and Aziraphale has never in his _life_ tasted something this good. Ever. _Ever._

There are no more little hard cupcake-looking chocolates in the box, though. There was only one. And he ate it already. It’s gone forever.

“Come on, angel, stop looking like you’re going to cry,” Crowley says. “It’s a variety box, you’ve barely started.”

“They’re all so pretty,” Aziraphale says, and pulls another one out because it looks like a little white rabbit with a sugar pink nose. He eats it, and it’s not as good as the not-a-cupcake but it’s still delicious. “ _Oh_. Oh, that is good. These are _amazing_ , Crowley, where on earth did you get them?”

Crowley seems to be busy staring at him. But when Aziraphale gives him a confused look, Crowley clears his throat. “I bought them in Brussels a couple days ago.”

“And you had them shipped all the way from Belgium?” Aziraphale asks, eyebrows going high. “Two day shipping from _Europe?_ ”

“No, I shipped myself and brought the chocolates along with me,” Crowley says, and he’s doing that look of affection thing again. Thank god the sunglasses are on. “Two day Crowley shipping.”

Aziraphale is still decked out in the same bright yellow graduation robe every other sibling has graduated in, but he can pay for dry-cleaning if he stains it. The hat comes off, though - the tassel quickly becomes obnoxious. He takes the box out of Crowley’s hands and sits on the grass below, motioning for Crowley to join. “Any chance you have napkins too?” Crowley reaches back into the black bag and pulls out an entire wad of napkins. Aziraphale plucks a couple out and wipes his mouth and fingers, just in case. “Thank you. Are you still laying low?”

“Yes and no,” Crowley says, and he is far too pleased with himself. “I’m Anthony J. Crowley now, place of birth depending on what passport I’ve pulled out.”

“What were you before?”

Crowley shrugs. “My old name is legally dead, so does it matter?” He pauses, and picks the ribbon off the ground. “It was Crowley when we met, though. I didn’t lie. I kept that part.” ( _For you_ , he doesn’t add.)

“Glad to hear it,” Aziraphale says, and eats another piece of _splendid_ candy. It’s pure chocolate. Just sweet, wonderful chocolate.

“So what are you planning to do now?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale _was_ focusing on the taste, but things sour so much mentally that he simply swallows rather than savoring. “I’m going to college.”

“You don’t sound particularly excited about that.”

“I will be, I’m sure. I’m probably just worn out from finals and all the pressure of graduation, that’s the problem,” Aziraphale says, and eats another piece of chocolate so he has something else to focus on. Something that isn’t Crowley’s unimpressed face, watching him lie to himself.

“Are you at least picking a major you like?” Crowley asks, and there’s a hint of pleading in it.

“Well, originally, I’d wanted literature, but. Taking into account practicality-”

“Aziraphale, listen to me. You could’ve bought this entire town a year ago, and we have _even more_ money now. You don’t have to take practicality into account,” Crowley tells him.

Aziraphale just keeps eating.

“Don’t make yourself miserable for them!” Crowley is getting worked up now, starting to gesture. “You just graduated, and nobody’s even looking for you! Are those the sorts of people who-”

“I’d like it if you stopped, please,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley stops.

And Aziraphale isn’t sure this is a thing he should say, but he does anyway. “I was taught to be polite, and diligent, and to serve my family. I’m supposed to be _good_ , as good as I can be. Meanwhile, you’ve faked your own death, left the country, and changed your name to get away from your...whatever you’d consider your upbringing. So I don’t think you understand. I don’t think you _can_ understand.”

“You’re right. I absolutely cannot understand making yourself so completely miserable for people who make you miserable in turn,” Crowley says, and after a cold moment, he smiles in the least pleasant way Aziraphale has seen. “You haven’t told them about the money. I know you haven’t spent a dime, either. Even when it could help them. Did you hide the credit card from them?”

The only thing he’s hidden better is Crowley’s ridiculous picture. He cut a slit into the leather seam of his wallet and pressed the card in flush. He cut another slit inside that already-secret compartment for the picture.

“Here’s an experiment,” Crowley says. “Let’s say I’ll give them a hundred thousand dollars if they give you to me, no questions asked. Would they do it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale says.

“That’s not an answer,” Crowley bites out. “If they’re going to control you, run you through some sort of childhood assembly line, do you think they won’t let someone else do it, if the price is right?”

“Stop.”

Crowley is clearly too worked up to actually stop, because he asks, “Do they love you?”

“Not everyone’s family is whatever hellhole you came from, Crowley!” Aziraphale shouts. And it’s too loud, he knows there’s _even more_ people staring now. More importantly, it’s too _mean_ , and he can tell the surprise is hurtful because Crowley’s face is straight and still but barely visible behind the sunglasses is shock and pain. It hurts to see Crowley is hurt, it’s even worse to know _he caused it_ , and Aziraphale winces. “Oh, dear, I’m sorry. That was-”

“Fine. And it’s true, too,” Crowley says, and he stands up. “But at least I had the benefit of a clear and obvious type of fucked up instead of _your_ version of hell.”

“Don’t leave,” Aziraphale says, but Crowley is picking his bag up from the ground, brushing grass off the bottom. “Please. I’m sorry.”

“You can use any of the tickets, but I’ll be notified if you do. If you’re not okay with me knowing, I’d suggest buying your own,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale doesn’t stand up in time to stop him. Still, Aziraphale at least _tries_ to pursue, but Crowley must be some sort of speed-walking champion because he’s heading to…

Oh, of _course_ he’s in a big black fancy sports car that’s parked in a fire lane.

If Aziraphale hadn’t had a single distracting moment of _for fuck’s sake_ , he probably could’ve caught Crowley. And Aziraphale would’ve grabbed his hands and apologized, _sincerely_ , that he shouldn’t use whatever nightmare childhood Crowley dealt with as fodder in an argument and he never would again, and Crowley would tell him _I just want you to be happy and I don’t think they’ll let that happen and it’s killing me that I can’t save you from your own blind loyalty_ , and they would hug. They would talk it out. They would talk a lot of things out. The next three years would go very differently.

But Aziraphale does have that _oh for fuck’s sake_ moment, and Crowley does get into the car and drive off at a terrifyingly dangerous speed, and now Aziraphale stands alone at the edge of a parking lot wearing a canary yellow robe made of cheap faux satin, watching him leave. Aziraphale raises a hand and waves, because if Crowley turns back, if Crowley even glances into the rear view mirror, he’ll see it. Even in sunglasses in a car with tinted windows, there’s no way to miss a bright yellow figure in the middle of nowhere.

He goes back to his graduation cap and his chocolates. He sits back down on the grass and eats them, alone.

Aziraphale figures out what Crowley was talking about at the end when he’s 10 candies in. There are papers, barely visible below the candy trays. When Aziraphale lifts the tray out to look at them, he’s staring at three different plane tickets to Brussels, Belgium. One leaves tomorrow. One leaves in a week. One leaves in a month.

It still takes a good while for any of his family to find him, or to even start looking. By the time one of his brothers finds him, Aziraphale has finished all his chocolates and all three plane tickets are tucked safely into pockets beneath the robe. And his brother _must_ know about Crowley, or _of_ him at least, given how the town loves to gossip, but his brother doesn’t ask. Instead, his brother says, “Hey, ready to go?”

Aziraphale nods, and takes the chocolate box, ribbon and all. Again, his brother doesn’t ask about it. Two other siblings are leaving with them, the others still milling about with others. It’s a small population. They’ll find their way home eventually. Everyone always does.

His 13-year-old sister, who has kept the same Australian accent since she was adopted a few years ago, sits in the back of the car next to Aziraphale, and she, at least, asks. “I heard a stranger showed up to give you a present.”

“He’s not a stranger, he’s my friend nobody else has met yet,” Aziraphale says very calmly.

His sister looks confused. “But you’re Aziraphale. You don’t have any friends.”

“Don’t be rude,” one of his older sisters chastises. She’s awkward about it but tries to give Aziraphale a smile. “Everyone has their own social circles, even if that circle is a line connecting to a dot none of us have seen before.”

“Does that dot have our car?” his brother asks.

Aziraphale is just...he lets out a frustrated huff and then takes a deep breath. Composure. He needs composure to deal with this. “He doesn’t.” And why not? There’s a bitter furious little gremlin crawling inside of him. Aziraphale gives the rear view mirror a winning smile. “But he offered to pay $100,000 if you sell me to him, I’m sure you could buy a new car with that.”

The car screeches to a stop. That’s not a big deal when there’s nobody else on the road for miles, but it’s a big deal in the way his brother immediately turns around to look _very intent_. “Tell me about this guy.”

His older sister gets to it first, though, furious, demanding, “Where does he live? Is this guy trying to make you _do things-_ ”

“Aziraphale, that is not the sort of thing a _friend_ does,” his brother says very seriously, just a second later.

It all takes off from there. Aziraphale stares at his siblings, who are all suddenly so very protective, his sister about ready to _order_ Aziraphale to tell him where Crowley lives, his brother immediately trying to dissect what other ways Aziraphale is being cruelly manipulated, his - _everyone in the car_ , god, they’re all so upset. None of them ask if he’s okay, or express concern. Instead, they’re all about ready to grab pitchforks and hunt Crowley down.

He tells them it was a joke, and it takes him a good ten minutes to calm down his family.

They care. They absolutely care. Crowley was wrong.

But he was also right, in a way, because Aziraphale then tries out, “I’ve been thinking of changing my major to literature.”

“Literature sounds a lot more like you than accounting,” his younger sister says, which earns sounds of agreement all around.

None of them say _what a great idea_ , but none of them laugh at him for it either.

It leaves Aziraphale with something to dissect for the rest of the night. And after hours of dissection, Aziraphale comes to this conclusion: his family is _loyalty_ more than love, but that’s not necessarily bad, not like Crowley was implying. Loyalty means belonging, and loyalty means people you can rely on, and loyalty means safety. Loyalty means obedience, too, but Aziraphale is willing to exchange obedience for safety. For now, at least.

The first flight passes.

“Good, you can work full time now,” is his father’s reaction to being reminded (again) that Aziraphale graduated.

“The motel closed down,” Aziraphale reminds him. Even with Crowley’s successful bribery, the Adam and Eve situation wasn’t something Garden of Eden could shake off. It wasn’t much of a loss, as far as Aziraphale was concerned.

His father raises an eyebrow. “And that’s keeping you from working full-time?” He shakes his head. “Go find another job.”

Aziraphale starts working nights at the overpriced gas station. He also starts wondering if he’ll ever see a man with a frog on his head drive up.

The second flight passes.

Three weeks after he graduates, a delivery person drives up to his house and hands over an envelope. His father nearly has a heart attack when he opens it up to see a check for $100,000. Nobody claims responsibility and there’s nothing but a near-illegible scrawl on the signature line, but it’s _nearly_ illegible. Aziraphale can make out a C at the start of the last name, and that’s more than enough proof.

Aziraphale uses his card for the very first time. He calls the concierge line from work and orders himself a phone. It’s dropped off at the store by a neatly pressed special delivery courier within half an hour. He calls the concierge again and requests they give Crowley his new phone number, and also that they have Crowley call him _right now_.

There’s an understandable delay in messaging, what with a third party involved, but he gets a call less than ten minutes later. His new phone gets through about half a ring before Aziraphale picks it up.

“You got a phone!” Crowley says. It’s loud, wherever he is. “Oh, I’m so glad you got a phone. _Finally_. Hello?”

Aziraphale frowns. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Aziraphale? Can’t really hear you. That’s not surprising if you’re near the motel, there’s not much service anywhere around your area. But I’ve got your number and you’ve got mine! Great!”

“Can you hear me _at all?”_ Aziraphale tries. He’s certainly losing the indignant wind in his sails. It’s just worse and worse as Crowley goes on. Aziraphale should not find it endearing.

“-hoping you’re doing okay,” Crowley is saying. “And...and don’t worry about things that were said, alright? Water under the bridge, we can just move on.” There’s a long silence. “I really can’t hear a word you’re saying, but I refuse to be the one who hangs up on this call, so-”

Aziraphale hangs up. And then he holds his shiny new phone against his chest, and then he realizes he’s doing that and puts it in his pocket, and then he remembers the $100,000 check to his father and screw it, he has millions of dollars, he can pay for however long of a distance call this may end up being. Aziraphale calls Crowley’s number on the gas station’s landline.

Crowley picks up almost instantly with, “Please tell me that’s you, it’s the right area code-”

“Why did you send my father $100,000?”

There is a pause, and then a sigh. “Well, heading right into it, are we?”

“That wasn’t a random charity check and we both know it.” Aziraphale scowls at the abandoned pumps outside. “Did you try to _buy me?_ Is that what-”

“I was having a bad night, I got upset, I did something stupid and I regret it,” Crowley says. “Besides, I doubt your father knows the significance, so consider it a charitable donation.”

Aziraphale fights the urge to put his head down on the counter. “How long ago was this bad night?”

There’s a long pause, and then Crowley’s voice is much quieter. The background noise is hushed too now. “A couple weeks ago, probably.”

A couple weeks ago would put them at the second plane ticket Aziraphale didn’t use.

Aziraphale gives up on his fight and drops his head to the counter. He has an awful lot of feelings all of a sudden and he is ready to deal with exactly none of them. Nevertheless, Aziraphale asks. He shouldn’t, but he does. “Are you in Brussels?”

“Yes, I am, that is where I’m at right now.” Crowley says. “And - I mean, it’s a nice city, but I could move on. If you think I should.” A small pause. “If there’s nothing I should be sticking around for.”

And he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to _do_. He’s sitting alone at work-

“Oh god, I’m paying for a call to _Belgium_ ,” Aziraphale says in a panic, because it’s an instinctive reaction from an entire lifetime’s training and _that’s so expensive_ , and hangs up.

Other than the tinny ever-present convenience store music, the only sound Aziraphale can hear is his heart beating furiously.

He’d known, but he hadn’t _known_ -known, and knowing he definitely knows what going to Brussels would actually be going to, it’s - but! There’s no reason it would need to mean anything, right? He could just show up, say hello to Crowley, see the city, and go home. The tickets are one-way, but Aziraphale has always understood that to be because Aziraphale is more than able to buy his own way back and Crowley had already bought three tickets, he didn’t need to make it _six_.

Aziraphale, until this call, had absolutely no intention of going to Brussels, but now he knows that without a doubt he would, _god, just admit it,_ he’d be standing Crowley up. And he doesn’t want to do that. But - and he was mad at Crowley! He was _furious_ with Crowley! And now he’s just imagining Crowley’s expression. It hurts to even think about, let alone what it would feel like to _cause_. He’s hurt Crowley before and he doesn’t want to do it again.

With a heavy sigh, Aziraphale stares down at the phone again.

This time, he calls collect.

This time, Crowley sounds much less cheerful. When he answers, Aziraphale receives a very guarded, “Hello?”

This time, Aziraphale is going to use the ticket.

“Hello again, Crowley. Do you have suggestions for what to pack? I’ve never been to Brussels before, and-”

“I swear I’ll call you right back,” Crowley says, and very abruptly hangs up.

(This is because Crowley is currently sitting in a bar in Brussels watching the sun rise and Aziraphale is saying _yes_ to him for the very first time since that moment when Everything Changed, when Aziraphale found out that Crowley isn’t just a weird boy in sunglasses, and that’s combined with alcohol, and it makes a catastrophic roller coaster of _feelings_ that leaves Crowley a mess. It takes a few minutes to compose himself because Crowley is tired and 18 and very in love.)

It’s nearly fifteen minutes later when the landline rings again.

Aziraphale sighs, and answers with, “I remind you this is actually the gas station’s phone number, so someone else might need to call.”

“It’s fine, angel, nobody will call. Much more importantly, which chocolate was your favorite?”


	3. *DON'T*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Guess I'm just gonna keep posting music at the start, idk.](https://youtu.be/MoRjm-8x8qE)

Northwestern is fine. College in general is...fine. Aziraphale is a literature major, albeit one with a minor in accounting. He’s assigned a roommate and a dorm room, and his roommate seems to think he’s crazy the second Aziraphale walks in, because Aziraphale’s eyes go wide and he says, “It’s so big for two people!”

His roommate did not grow up in a 20 person household of carousel siblings.

Thanks to Crowley doing whatever he does (Aziraphale is not about to ask since he’s terrified of what the truth could be), Aziraphale now has access to $25,033,893.44, if he wants it.

There are social events that Aziraphale feels compelled to go to, in a near-immediate sense of obligation. People are always very excited to meet him when they hear his still-present accent and want to ask him about England but when he tells them that no, he’s actually lived about 60 miles from here for as long as he can remember, Aziraphale goes back to being a boring nerd. So he ends up mingling for about half an hour before losing interest and going off to find something to read.

But there’s a difference between liking to read, and liking to write papers about what you read. Literature courses seem very focused on the writing papers part, and even worse, usually more of a rephrasing of class notes in a paper format rather than any actual analysis.

And every time Aziraphale finds himself thinking negative thoughts about his whole... _situation_ , he ends up thinking about Crowley, who is now sending him postcards. The last one was from Ulaanbaatar. Just like the other 7, it always has the same thing written on the back. _Wish you were here, but you’re not._

Aziraphale finishes his first year of college, and then he’s expected to go back home. His very forgettable roommate leaves, and Aziraphale is packing up and nobody can pick him up until tomorrow and he just keeps looking at his phone, _watching it_ , because exactly two people have the number and one of those people is a bank.

If the other person had magical powers of some sort, it would happen. But as it is, Aziraphale stares at his phone until 2AM and it stays silent, not used for anything but collecting dust between bi-monthly bank calls (“You have _even more_ money now!” is more or less what the bank says every single time, and Aziraphale approves his portion going into the investment fund and makes a cautious inquiry into the other account’s well-being and hangs up).

He runs out of boxes before he runs out of stuff to put in them. It’s almost entirely books. He really likes books. It’s books and the postcards he dared to pin to the wall while his forgettable roommate seemed to get more and more upset when Aziraphale wouldn’t give more details than ‘they’re from a friend’ when asked.

There are a depressing number of things about college that Aziraphale isn’t excited about. But he is _even less_ excited about the prospect of going back to a house where he sleeps in the same room as three other boys, two of which snore, and everything is loud and busy and there’s no such thing as privacy. Where even the subtle rebellion of leaving a party early would go back to being a potential catastrophe of _where were you, why did you leave, don’t do that again_.

So, Aziraphale swallows his pride and picks up the phone. There are two contacts inside: The Bank, and *DON’T*.

Crowley is listed as *DON’T* because once upon a time Aziraphale went to Brussels. He went to Brussels and he went _just for Crowley_ and for two days, it was glorious. It was a wonderful time exploring the city and gorging themselves on truly _amazing_ food and wonderful conversation. They went to old bookstores and went to tourist traps and Crowley was renting a two-bedroom apartment above a chocolate store and it was, for those two days, the best time of his life.

But then day three came around, when Aziraphale woke up to a James Bond-esque nightmare bashing down the entrance and breaking hinges to smash through the door. Aziraphale rushed out of his bedroom just in time to see Crowley, who was lounging near the kitchen table, shriek and jump out the kitchen window, landing in a tray of chocolates the poor shop had just put out. And he didn’t stop running. One of the intruders jumped out after him.

Turned out the ‘villains’ were undercover police who proceeded to arrest Aziraphale, handcuffs and everything, and wouldn’t listen to any of his protests or attempted explanations. They just took him to a poorly-lit room and tried to interrogate Aziraphale about criminal activities he knew absolutely nothing about.

“Then why were you with that young man?” the Good Cop asked him. “Or am I just supposed to believe you met up for no reason-”

“He’s my best friend from back home and he bought me plane tickets for my high school graduation and it didn’t occur to me to ask if he’s some sort of...whatever you think he is!”

“How did you meet?” Bad Cop asked him.

“I worked the night shift at a motel, he’d come keep me company sometimes.”

“You expect me to believe that?!” Bad Cop asked, with the fist-pounding and everything. _Now_ , Aziraphale could roll his eyes at it, but at the time, Aziraphale had flinched and yelped. “Listen to me. That boy you’ve been running around with for the past few days is bad news. He’s a career criminal at 20 years old!”

 _The bastard made himself older than me_ , Aziraphale did not say aloud, although he did scowl.

“Should you really be trying to defend someone who jumped out a window and left you alone to deal with your problems?” Good Cop asked. “He certainly didn’t defend you, so why should you defend him?”

Aziraphale felt completely helpless. But even exhausted and helpless, he still told the truth. “Because he’s my friend.”

“Think it’s safe to say you’re a bit more devoted than he is,” Bad Cop says.

It’s a bad argument, because Crowley flew from Brussels to the middle of nowhere with three expensive international business-class plane tickets in hand and then drove even deeper into the rural abyss, just for Aziraphale’s graduation. He did it with fancy chocolates, too.

“I’d like to leave now,” Aziraphale says, and holds out his handcuffed wrists, expectant. The cops look confused. “Seems to me that my only real crime is a poor choice of friends. I don’t think that’s a criminal offense.”

They did _not_ like that. And Aziraphale quickly came to regret saying it.

It probably wasn’t completely by the rulebook when they grabbed him rough enough to hurt and immediately drove him to the airport and demanded he get on the first flight back to his own country, regardless of what city it went to, but that’s what happened. So Aziraphale bought himself a ticket on the first flight, which went to Orlando, meaning the flight was full of screaming children with Mickey Mouse hats, because that is the _only_ reason for a direct flight from Brussels to Orlando. He left with nothing but his wallet, phone, and a growing sinking sensation. The odd part was the sinking sensation was accompanied by a rising indignant fury because this was _absolutely_ Crowley’s fault.

Aziraphale was stuck in Orlando until he could get a flight home, but that flight home first went to Chicago and _then_ to his nearest airport, and it took two days to get home, not including the amount of time it took when he finally got to his nearest airport and had to find a way to get to his actual house again.

He almost felt bad for the taxi driver.

This was for a few reasons. First, the driver had to go to the middle of nowhere, and it was highly unlikely he’d find fare back. Second, the driver had to be in the vicinity when Aziraphale’s phone rang.

Back then, Crowley’s contact name was still Crowley.

Aziraphale nearly dropped his phone he was so furious. “You - _you!_ What on Earth do you-”

“You’re alright,” Crowley breathed out.

“No thanks to you! I got _deported_ , Crowley! I got sent to _Orlando!_ ”

“You didn’t actually get deported, angel. Those weren’t cops,” Crowley said, sounding so very grim.

Aziraphale scoffed. “What next, you’re going to convince me one of them was hiding a _really tiny_ frog on their head?”

“No. I found out who Frog-Head Man is,” Crowley said.

“Congratulations. Anything else you’d like to share?”

Crowley was quiet for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and asked, “Would you like to go see something other than Brussels? Maybe outside of Europe entirely?”

“Yes, but not now, and _certainly_ not with you,” Aziraphale fumed.

“Alright, I’ll just...give you some time,” Crowley said. “You have my number.”

Aziraphale hung up on him. He gave no farewell, no reassurance, and, thankfully, no additional insults.

When he got home, his father was _furious_ and Aziraphale was grounded until the week before he started classes and spent the duration cleaning up after his youngest newest siblings. All of his siblings were a bit confused by the punishment, since they hadn’t even noticed he was gone.

And he changed his phone contact labeled _Crowley_ to _*DON’T*_ because 10 hours later, staring up at the bunk above his, Aziraphale wanted to call and apologize for being rude and ask questions. But he was angry! But he also wanted to ask if Crowley was okay, except he was _so angry, so very angry,_ so he pulled his phone out of its hiding spot and switched Crowley’s contact name as a reminder. Because it would just happen again, and Crowley was _bad_. Plain old bad. Not someone he should deal with even a little bit.

So, no, there is very little chance of Crowley magically contacting Aziraphale as he packs boxes and starts to question his life choices yet again. Because over the past nearly-a-year, the closest they’ve gotten to interacting is Crowley sending postcards, and even then, it’s almost a courtesy that Crowley is doing for him. Aziraphale has absolutely noticed they tend to come a couple weeks after one of his bank calls where he tries to casually ask if Crowley is okay.

If Aziraphale was a more self-aware person, or a more forgiving person, or even just slightly better at admitting he wants things, or maybe even just a tiny bit more tired so he thought a little less hard about what he was doing, this is what would’ve happened. This is not the way things go for _this_ Aziraphale. It happens in a good number of timelines, enough that it’s good to know that if it occurred, if this was a more honest Aziraphale, a _braver_ Aziraphale, it would go like this:

Aziraphale grabs his phone, and edits *DON’T* back to just plain old Crowley. Yes, he’s a very shady person, yes, he got Aziraphale deported and sent to Orlando, but it’s _Crowley_. And Crowley is just about his favorite thing.

Oh god, he really is, isn’t he?

And those two days before the cops came were...Aziraphale sighs, and looks down at his phone. They’d been the most fun he’s ever had in his entire life. Maybe that’s why college has been so lackluster. Perhaps he’s thinking about this the wrong way. Maybe Crowley just needs a positive influence.

But Aziraphale doesn’t want to just _call_ , that seems - oh, there’s an idea. Aziraphale decides to do something exciting and new (and quite frankly a little weird, probably won’t catch on): he texts.

It’s a nightmare. Entering 9666885553099966688055544455330866606333380333666777034446666337770777766663308444633 to convey “would you like to meet for dinner some time” is definitely a waste of time, but it also lets him avoid wondering if Crowley would even pick up if Aziraphale called. And also lets him avoid apologizing, or at least avoid it until he figures out whether or not he actually _should_ be apologizing.

It takes about 40 seconds to get a reply, and it is this: _u text now???_ And then, a bit later: _sure. do i come 2 u or do we go 2 a place?_

Oh, those abbreviations are such a good idea. It looks ghastly but it must save so much time.

Not as much time as Aziraphale would’ve liked, and it shows, since Crowley has the time to send another text. _u can call_

“Thank god,” Aziraphale mutters, and does just that.

Crowley picks up before Aziraphale even has his phone fully up to his ear, and there’s actual glee in his voice, giddy in a way that’s almost contagious. “Aziraphale! How are you?”

“Hello, I...well, I just finished my first year of college,” Aziraphale says.

“Congratulations!” Crowley sounds legitimately excited for him. “Is there some sort of celebratory dinner place you have in mind?”

Aziraphale looks out his dorm window at the sleepy little college town that’s quickly losing almost half its population as summer starts. Sidewalks are empty, buildings are locking up tight, and the dorms are starting to settle down for their summer hibernation (until the sports camps start, at least).

This version of Aziraphale, braver or more self-aware, understands that he doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to be _this_.

“Tokyo,” he says.

There’s a pause, but then Crowley says, “Alright, we can do that. Do you want to go right now?”

“Are you in the middle of something?”

He can just _hear_ the shrug. “Nothing that can’t wait for a bit. I’ll call the concierge line for us both, it’ll be easier to meet up that way. Want me to get you clothes too?”

Aziraphale frowns, and looks at the boxes upon boxes of packed items in front of him. “What do you mean? I have clothes-”

“I mean _fancy_ clothes, like suits and ties and shiny shoes. There are dress codes for some places,” Crowley says.

“Then I guess so? But I don’t want anything _too_ expensive-”

Crowley laughs. “Why, you’re on a budget? It’s _me_ , angel, you’re fine.”

It’s very strange how that last sentence makes Aziraphale feel. His shoulders loosen for the first time in a year. _Everything_ seems to loosen. “Well, be sure to note that I don’t want a black suit, that’s your thing.”

“Are you criticizing my sense of style?”

“You have a favorite color, dear, there’s nothing wrong with that. But black is claimed in this relationship, so I’ll take something else. If I was criticizing you, it’d be your life choices with eyewear. If we went swimming, you would dive in wearing sunglasses.”

“I take them off if you ask me to,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale can’t help the smile. He concedes the point with far more affection in his voice than he realizes. “Yes, you do.”

There’s a pause, and then Crowley sounds a bit squeaky when he says, “...are you asking?”

“Asking for what?” Aziraphale asks.

“Nothing,” Crowley says very quickly. “Nothing at all. I’ll see you in Tokyo, then. Goodbye.”

The call ends, and Aziraphale sighs as he puts the phone down. Crowley is more sensitive about his eyes than Aziraphale had realized, and he shouldn’t have poked at it, even in a friendly banter sort of way. And it _obviously_ should’ve been avoided, considering what Aziraphale already knows, but he’s an idiot sometimes.

He calls home and tells them not to worry, he’s going on a road trip with a friend.

“You have a friend?” his sibling asks, clearly shocked.

He’s been away from home long enough that it’s almost difficult to not say _well fuck you too_. But it’s not long enough, so Aziraphale laughs a very nice laugh, like it’s a funny joke and not completely sincere on his family’s end, and says, “Yes, I do.”

“Alright, I’ll let everyone know, but just know there’s a chance Mother might be coming home,” his sibling says. But they say that every year, every _month_ , the very concept of Mother’s arrival so momentous that it immediately keeps his other siblings in check. It’s true, she does come home every once in a while and sometimes takes his older siblings with her when she leaves, but it’s rare and Aziraphale has no intention of prioritizing a _maybe_ over what he wants. Not this time. ( _Not this Aziraphale._ ) He hasn’t seen Mother in a very long time and is perfectly fine with that.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Aziraphale says, and hangs up. Then he calls the concierge line and has them set up a storage space for all his college things, because he simply doesn’t want to bother.

A nice hired car comes and gets him, and Aziraphale sits quietly in the very comfortable back for the few hours it takes to get to the airport without a single bit of luggage beyond a backpack with a few books and toiletries, mostly because who knows what toothpaste tastes like in Japan? And the books are for the drive, which is followed by getting suspicious looks at the local airport, but he gets sent first class to the west coast, where he gets on yet another airplane (yet again first class). Because it’s first class, Aziraphale has a lovely long flight that he mostly spends sleeping very comfortably.

About 33 hours after their call, local time somewhere around a dreary empty 4AM, Aziraphale is walking out of the terminal to see Crowley waiting for him. Aziraphale can pick him out immediately. The always-wearing-sunglasses thing really does have a benefit or two.

The atrium is generally quiet, other than the rest of the passengers from Aziraphale’s plane trickling into the area, and it’s a bit hotter than it needs to be. Or it’s hotter now than it was before. It’s - it’s just warmer, is all, and it’s a clingy kind of heat that Aziraphale has to deal with. And there’s few enough people that it takes no time at all for Crowley to spot him in return.

There are others in the room, of course, families rushing to meet loved ones and individuals dragging themselves out towards transportation, but as the high-pitched whine of an industrial-strength vacuum churns its way across the floor, Aziraphale and Crowley stare at each other. And just keep on staring.

Last time Aziraphale saw Crowley, he was running away in pajamas.

 _Why did you call him?_ A large part of his mind scolds, furious. _He’s nothing but trouble, you’re just going to get arrested and dumped in a Disney hellscape all over again._

Other parts of Aziraphale have separate opinions. There’s a lot of feelings and thoughts and the mighty airport vacuum slowly but steadily drives towards them, ceaselessly devoted to its duties regardless of the callous impact it has on the drama, the _gravitas_ of two conflicted yearning creatures gazing, considering, _hoping_ . They stare, and the vacuum _vwhrrrrr_ s on.

But there is a trend in this relationship, and while it does take a good while to resurface, it does. In the end, it always will. Crowley makes it easier.

“You’re more than half asleep, aren’t you,” Crowley calls, and he’s smiling just a bit, looking terribly fond as he walks over. “I was going to ask what you’d like to eat, but maybe you should sleep first.”

“I slept on the plane,” Aziraphale says. Crowley waves a hand in front of his face, and Aziraphale efficiently bats it away with lightning-fast reflexes born of a lifetime dealing with unwelcome bouts of playing keep-away with 10 other children. “I’m _fine_ , I’m just…wait.”

Aziraphale finally actually looks out the windows. He looks out the windows and sees the absence of skyscrapers and loud masses of people. There are bright lights, but they’re the bright lights of an airport, and then there’s an awful lot of darkness.

But all the signs are Japanese, and the flight had said _welcome to Tokyo_ , and Aziraphale had absolutely gotten on the correct flight!

“Is _this_ Tokyo?” Aziraphale asks, horrified.

“No, this is Narita International Airport. There’s an hour of driving to get to actual Tokyo,” Crowley says.

“Oh, thank god,” Aziraphale breathes out, and Crowley laughs. It’s a good-natured laugh, followed by Crowley leading the way out of the airport and towards a parking lot, where Crowley has a small black Nissan rental car ready and waiting. There are cardboard boxes and bags stuffed in the back seat as well. “What’s all that?”

“Your new clothes,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale gives Crowley a betrayed look. “I thought it was going to be one nice outfit! _One_ , not boxes and boxes-”

“Calm down, most of it’s just the same thing in multiple sizes. I couldn’t exactly give the concierge your perfect measurements,” Crowley says, and motions vaguely towards the back. “The trunk is full of shoeboxes because you have three shoe options, but I have _no idea_ what your shoe size is, so it’s three shoe styles with ten different sizes. Meaning we have thirty shoeboxes. So yes, it’s a lot, but it’s not _a lot_ , understand?”

Aziraphale accepts the answer, albeit grudgingly, and off they go. Which is bad. Very very bad. Crowley is driving and Crowley _should not drive_ and Aziraphale was considering napping in the car but instead he’s bracing himself on the cheap plastic dashboard and shouting about the many, _many_ road features that Crowley completely ignores and goes speeding past in a very unsafe manner. He remembers Crowley being a driver who follows all rules of the road absolutely perfectly, but that was also with $20,000,000 in the back of the car.

But then he stops, thank god. He stops at a stoplight, and Aziraphale shuts his eyes to breathe, and keeps them shut for a while. When he opens them, he stares, because it’s like someone pulled the night sky up close, a thousand lights shining and glinting, but there are colors too. There are so many colors, and so many _people_ , all of them going about their business. Even at this hour, not even 5AM, there are people.

Only a few minutes later, Crowley parks the car at a very tall and fancy-looking building. Even now in the morning edge of twilight, there are people in suits who rush up to take care of things and Crowley gives them the keys and Aziraphale just...assumes this is normal? Crowley probably knows what he’s doing, or at least knows better than Aziraphale, so he follows him up to the reception desk.

Aziraphale worked in a motel, so he picks up on the problem before Crowley does. Except he’s not sure it’s a mistake, and he has maybe 20 seconds to decide if he should point it out.

In this version of things here’s what happens: Aziraphale keeps his mouth shut for 20 seconds.

And then Crowley realizes, with honest surprise, “Wait, there’s only one room?”

This is an interesting fact, when it comes to potential timelines - in every timeline, _every single one_ , the bank concierge has assumed Crowley and Aziraphale are a couple and have been together since they were 17. With this in mind, unless the concierge is explicitly instructed to do otherwise, the concierge books them in one room, or suite, or cottage, or cabin. The location doesn’t matter. The lodging type doesn't matter. It’s only a constant for the very first time, but it’s a true constant.

What is not a constant is that, before Crowley can object, Aziraphale smiles at Crowley and says, “That’s fine.”

“It’s not like we can’t afford two,” Crowley objects.

But the Aziraphale who would make these choices knows he didn’t want to talk to Crowley and visit Tokyo and all of this because he’s bored, or trying to sort out his life. Some versions know this when he calls. Some versions figure it out on airplanes. Many of them look at Crowley in an airport and think, _oh, so that’s why_. But these versions of Aziraphale made these choices because he wanted to. He made these choices because Crowley is his very favorite thing he’s ever encountered.

And this Aziraphale is much braver.

So he says, “If you want your own room that’s fine, but I don’t. I’d rather share.”

“It’s not just one room, angel, it’s one _bed_ ,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale smiles. “I know.”

They take the one bed suite, and Crowley is nearly sulking the whole way there. He’s a mix of movement and icy rigidity, fidgeting one moment and then flashing into sharp stillness the next. When the elevator doors open on their floor, he finally actually frowns at Aziraphale. “It’s fine if you want to get some sort of payback for Brussels, but I am _not_ sleeping on the floor. I’m taking the couch-”

“Didn’t I explicitly say I wanted to share the bed with you?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley’s frown only grows deeper. “But there’s only one bed.”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale says, and when Crowley doesn’t immediately follow him out of the elevator, Aziraphale holds a hand out. Crowley still looks unhappy, but he takes it and steps out finally, clearly expecting Aziraphale to drag him along down the hallway. Instead, Aziraphale simply holds it, and waits, and waits _more_ , but Crowley is still frowning at him. Eventually Aziraphale clears his throat and, god, maybe this was a mistake. “Unless _you_ want - well, we can go get a second room. That’s perfectly fine. I did just decide for both of us, didn’t I? That wasn’t fair. You’re right. Plus we’re tired and this isn’t something to-”

“You want to sleep with me,” Crowley says. It’s an awe-struck whisper.

Aziraphale can’t stop the blush, but he doesn’t deny it or try to downplay what he’s been trying to say. He swallows, and nods, and since Crowley is still staring, he says, “I mean, only if you want to.”

“Do you mean sleep with me as in we’re tired and need rest, or do you mean-”

The blushing only gets worse. “Both? Either? I have no idea, can we please go in the room for this conversation?”

“Yes. Absolutely,” Crowley says, and unlocks the door in record speed. It’s particularly impressive for someone who is almost visibly shaking.

Free will is a strange thing. Despite it being ever-present in the choices of mortal creatures, some things still feel inevitable. Even on a thread of choices so astonishingly bold as this one, by now a thousand twists away from the previous path, it feels for them as if everything was always leading to this, here and now: a sweet desperate kiss against an open door as the sun rises, unnoticed.

A bolder, braver Aziraphale gets what he actually wants, and is _happy_. He’s so happy he doesn’t know how to label the feeling. His future spins out into a weave positively overloaded with love.

This is not that Aziraphale.

This Aziraphale sits in his spartan dorm room and looks down at his phone, at the contact labeled _*DON’T*_ , and he can’t do it. He just can’t. Things were said, things were _done_ , and he can’t ignore the past. Crowley is a terrible idea, and Aziraphale isn’t going to take the risk. For both their sakes, he’s not going to do it. It’s the most reasonable choice, it’s practical, and it’s so much easier.

In an infinite network of potential futures, this Aziraphale rarely veers away from the path of least resistance. This Aziraphale isn’t the happy one, the strong one, the brave one, the lucky one.

But he is the most important.

He sleeps on a bare mattress because he packed up his sheets. The sheets and everything else he packed manages to make its way back to the family house for the summer. Aziraphale goes back to his job at the gas station, and it’s boring and empty and over and over again he thinks, _*DON’T*_. Don’t do it. Don’t call, don’t text, don’t look at his picture or pull the postcards out of their place he hid away tucked inside the cover of an astronomy textbook, just. Just _don’t_.

And this version of Aziraphale doesn’t.

He begins his second year of college. He’s 20. He has a 4.0 GPA and is bored out of his mind. He starts going to see plays put on by the drama department, and then at the local community theater, and this is where he meets the very unfortunately named Adam, who is attractive and smart and is a journalism major who has a passion for brutal theater critique. Brutal critique of everything, really. Adam also has very good timing, because he somehow manages to blatantly proposition an Aziraphale who is both slightly tipsy and also drowning in ennui, and Adam looks nice, and it seems kind of morbidly funny since his name is _Adam_ , so Aziraphale actually says yes.

The whole kissing and touching and all that is...well, it’s fine, as far as Aziraphale is concerned, but his not-a-boyfriend-per-se takes that lukewarm interest to mean Aziraphale is playing hard to get. Adam pursues. Aziraphale lets him, because it seems rude not to and he can’t really think up any excuse to say no. Besides, it’s not as if Aziraphale _minds it_ , although sometimes Adam gets a bit irritating. Kissing is nice enough, sex is nice enough, and it’s something to do between papers. It’s nice to have someone he can talk to about plays, even though everything Adam ever says is negative and the only way he can ever compliment someone is by insulting a third party instead.

Near the end of their first semester together, Adam asks Aziraphale to come meet his family. And Aziraphale sort of...well, maybe panics is an appropriate word, yes. Because Adam has been fun enough for the past few months but _no thank you_ and in his panic Aziraphale does the one thing any relationship would have to at least stop and talk about. He grabs his wallet, opens the small secret slit in it, and pulls out Crowley’s completely ridiculous picture.

And Adam looks at it and gets very sad, and it’s all very emotional on his end with a tearful _I never stood a chance did I_ and yes, afraid so. _He’s the one who sends you postcards?_ Yes, he’s the one who sends postcards and we’ve been madly in love for years, it’s all very long distance, Aziraphale should’ve said something months ago, so on and so forth. Aziraphale apologizes for ‘leading him on’ and all that and shoves Crowley’s picture back into its spot in his wallet before walking out rather briskly.

But then, Aziraphale feels _guilty_.

He’s still not sure why Crowley even had the bank deliver that picture, but it definitely wasn’t to make breaking up with his not-actually-boyfriend easier. And yes, by now this Aziraphale is very convinced that Crowley is bad news and a terrible idea and would wonder if he was in prison if he didn’t keep getting postcards and also bank updates. But there’s being a terrible person, and there’s using someone as an unwitting scapegoat. Oh, sure, Crowley will never know, but _Aziraphale does_ , and he always will. And he’s not very good with secrets.

And then Aziraphale wonders, _Would Crowley actually mind if he found out?_ To which he reasons the answer is, _I have only spoken to him for a grand total of 50 hours through my entire lifetime so I don’t really know him, and a very large shared bank account doesn’t mean I have any obligation_.

But then Adam shows up at his door, spine rigid and eyes red, and says, “I want to meet him.” He sounds resolute and unshakable and Aziraphale knows by now that this is Adam’s Ultimatum voice. It’s the first time he’s ever used it on Aziraphale and not as a final verdict on some unfortunate art film or ballet performance.

Oh no.

“But he’s in Madagascar,” Aziraphale says. Potentially a lie, potentially not. He never knows where Crowley is until he’s already left, flying off with nothing left behind other than a _wish you were here, but you’re not._

“If he loves you, he’ll show up if you ask,” Adam says. “It’s fine if you don’t choose me. But you never even _mentioned_ him. You hide his postcards. His picture is in a hidden pocket in your wallet, for fuck’s sake. Does he love you back? Is he worth waiting for?”

Aziraphale doesn’t reply because what could he even say? And now he feels guilty for using Crowley’s picture _and_ for probably breaking Adam’s heart and his attempt to get out of this accidentally-a-relationship situation has only gone from bad to worse. Oh, god, Adam looks about to start crying, so Aziraphale panics and grabs his phone and calls _*DON’T*_.

It rings and rings and rings, but finally there’s a groggy and incredibly confused, “Azirafmh?” The confusion is justifiable, after literal years of no contact.

“Sorry to wake you, but can you come visit me?”

“What? Are you in trouble?” Crowley asks, sounding significantly more alert. “Where are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine, dear, everything’s fine, I’m still at college, I’d just appreciate a visit. Every now and then.” And Adam is _right there_ and Crowley’s clever, isn’t he? Sure, he’s clever, so Aziraphale adds, “Like a good boyfriend would.”

There’s a long pause. Very, very long pause. “You need to explain this.”

“Well, I’m afraid I cheated on you for a good while and I’ve now confessed, and I’m trying to break it off since _we’re_ so in love, I just _have_ to pick you over him, and I feel terribly guilty-”

“Oh, you absolute _bastard_ ,” Crowley says, but there’s an unexpected bite of admiration in it too. “You’re breaking up with someone and using _me_ as an excuse?”

Aziraphale grimaces. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“So you want me to drop everything and show up at your middle-of-nowhere college and pretend to date you just so you can pass off your lie,” Crowley says. “Nearly two years of silence from you, and _this_ is what you call for?”

“I know, I _know_ it’s awful, but I promise I’ll never do it again,” Aziraphale says, and he means it, completely heartfelt in his apology. “I am _so_ full of regret for this. I will _never_ do it again.”

Crowley sighs, and there’s shifting on the other end of the call, the sound of movement that Aziraphale can’t interpret. But then Crowley says, “Alright, but I’m not being a jealous asshole. I’ll be your amazing world-traveling boyfriend for about ten hours and then I’m gone. And you owe me.”

 _“Thank you,”_ Aziraphale breathes out. “Really, thank you.”

“I’ll probably be there late tomorrow. I’m hanging up now,” Crowley says, and does.

Adam wears the tight-jawed expression of a captain ready and willing to go down with his ship.

Aziraphale will absolutely comply with Crowley’s almost trifling request to not be painted as some jealous asshole boyfriend out for blood. It’s the least he can do. But he also knows that Crowley is...well. He’s going to show up and be himself, and that’s a hell of a thing for someone to be.

“He’s on his way,” Aziraphale says, gives Adam a tight smile, and tries to be gentle when he shuts the door in his face.


	4. Sugar Sugar Romcom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Another song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oUv0NbjbGzQ), how sweet, aww.

Aziraphale spends the next day speed-reading in the library between classes, because he is trying to gorge himself on every bit of relationship advice he can find. Signs of a healthy long-term relationship, the basic theories of human sexuality, and then he finds himself looking at old Cosmopolitan magazines and _10 Signs He’s Into You (And 5 Ways To Reciprocate)_. He’s well aware that this is a _huge_ favor Crowley is doing, and Aziraphale has no intention of wasting it.

By the time Crowley calls, the library is starting to close, which is saying something when it’s the week before finals. People glare at him as he fumbles for his phone and answers, “Crowley? Are you here?”

“Not sure. Where exactly am I supposed to be going?” Crowley asks. He sounds _exhausted_ , which is more than reasonable in these circumstances.

“Oh! Of course, I should’ve told you. I have a small apartment just off campus, I’m heading home now,” Aziraphale says, and gives directions as he walks briskly for two blocks until he’s at his apartment. His arrival nearly ties with Crowley’s, who parks his ridiculously luxurious black rental car at the same time Aziraphale reaches his door. The second the engine stops, Crowley is out of the car. It’s past midnight, and he’s still wearing sunglasses. As ever. Even with the sunglasses, Aziraphale knows Crowley is staring at him.

Aziraphale pockets his keys and heads over, saying, “Thank you for coming, _thank you_ , really. Do you have luggage?”

“In the back,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale rushes over to get it, where there’s a large black suitcase. There’s also a bouquet of flowers. When Aziraphale raises his eyebrows and gives Crowley a questioning look, Crowley scowls just the slightest bit. “If I’m being your boyfriend, I’m being an _amazing_ boyfriend. I will _not_ be outdone by whoever you’re dumping. They will be wholly and completely outclassed and humiliated.”

Well. Aziraphale doesn’t quite know how to reply to that. “You don’t have to humiliate him. He’s not a bad person.”

Crowley leans on the car, and waits. And keeps waiting. When Aziraphale blushes but still doesn’t answer, Crowley flat out asks, “Why’s he getting dumped?”

Aziraphale takes the suitcase and leaves the flowers in the car.

“I deserve that much information, all things considered,” Crowley says. He grabs the flowers himself, and follows Aziraphale to the apartment. “Did he say something? Do something?”

He really _does_ deserve that much, so Aziraphale sighs, and opens the door. It seems the most diplomatic option to say, “I realized he’s more invested in this than I am.”

“What, he pulled a ring out and proposed?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale shuts the door behind them. “He wants me to meet his family.”

“Oh, I doubt that went over well with you,” Crowley says, and starts going through his suitcase until he pulls out a glass vase, of all things. Then he goes over to the tap and starts filling it, humming for a moment as he watches the water level rise. “So he’s getting dumped because he wants to make you a permanent part of his life, is that it?”

“Well.” Aziraphale does not like this conversation. But Crowley deserves to have it, so Aziraphale is going to keep on answering. “I wouldn’t want to be a permanent part of his life. He’s a bit…”

God, it’s infuriating that even with Aziraphale’s mind flailing to find a way to explain, Crowley’s mouth twitches into something between a smile and a smirk, like he knows what’s coming. And clearly he does, because Crowley cheerily offers, “Do you want to give me seven polite words that mean _boring_ , or can we just cut straight to it?”

Aziraphale sighs. “Fine. He’s boring. Are you happy?”

“Very,” Crowley says, and looks it. He picks up the flowers, unwraps them, and sets them inside the vase. It’s a perfect fit, and it’ll probably look amazing when sunlight returns. “Is there some sort of schedule for meeting Boring Ex?”

“You don’t need to call him that, it’s not _his_ fault he’s been living with a...a limited view of the world. Not everyone’s a multi-millionaire,” Aziraphale scolds.

“But _you_ are, so why haven’t you taken him somewhere to open his eyes? You could easily afford it,” Crowley points out.

Adam dreams of going to see Broadway plays or West End musicals, yearns for Russian ballet, hopes to see a thousand different things he’ll never be able to afford. Aziraphale never offered to take him, because Aziraphale knows they would go and then he would sit through _days_ of criticism, ripping the plays apart. Because Adam believes he could do it better. He just hasn’t had the opportunity, of course.

Crowley, who has been watching Aziraphale’s face intently this whole time, is almost pitying when he says, “With that look, I guarantee dumping him is the right choice. Doing it like _this-_ ” he motions to himself “-wasn’t, but dumping him was. Is it okay if I sleep on your couch now?”

“You can have the bed,” Aziraphale says quickly. “I can change the sheets, it’s no-”

“I’m not asking for the bed, I’m asking for the couch,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale does _not_ like the idea that Crowley flew however far just to help Aziraphale out with his own awkward moronic mess only to have to sleep on the couch. He does not like it _at all,_ but Crowley sits down on the couch and takes his boots off. Somehow, that feels like an ultimatum.

So, Aziraphale settles for giving him a nod and shooing Crowley off the cushions so he can at least put some sheets on the couch, and it’s winter, and things get cold here, so Aziraphale dumps as much cozy fabric as he can on the couch. It looks more like a blanket cocoon with a padded back than a couch when Aziraphale is done with it.

Crowley, who has taken off his shoes and coat and that’s all, looks at it and says, “Thanks?”

“Anything I can get you?” Aziraphale asks. “I have more pillows. Is there anything you need?”

“I need _sleep_ ,” Crowley says, but there’s no irritation in it, just the need to make sure Aziraphale listens.

And then things get...odd, for a moment. Because Crowley starts tossing blankets aside so he can actually physically get onto the couch, but he’s doing it all in his sunglasses, and Aziraphale is an idiot who doesn’t think because he says, “Aren’t you going to take those off?”

In Brussels, what feels like a lifetime ago, Aziraphale commented on the sunglasses, usually out of safety concerns in dark places, but never really asked Crowley to take them off. Not explicitly. Not since when they met and Aziraphale wasn’t exactly aware of who he was dealing with. Or aware of _why_ Crowley wears them. Oh, Crowley is undoubtedly a bit of an idiot who thinks they look cool, but he is also either insecure or overprotective when it comes to his eyes. For good reason.

“You don’t have to,” Aziraphale says.

“No, it’s a fair point,” Crowley says, and takes them off. He puts the sunglasses on the side table, in easy arm’s reach, and Aziraphale had thought he misremembered what Crowley’s eyes look like. He’d thought it was an unreliable memory glazed over with teen hormones. If anything, his eyes are a brighter gold than Aziraphale remembers.

And without the sunglasses, Aziraphale can see that Crowley looks absolutely terrified, but beneath that there’s something hungry and hurt. He has the most expressive eyes Aziraphale’s ever seen, all because so very few people see them.

Just like last time, Aziraphale wants to hold him close and swear to keep him safe.

Crowley shuts his eyes, and it makes the scars so much clearer when he keeps them shut. But he turns to face the back of the couch and seems to almost slither into the blankets, shifting until he’s almost completely covered.

“Goodnight, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and goes to bed.

_(10 Ways to Tell He’s Into You: #2 - Trust. Are you the first person he shares news with, good or bad? Is he okay with you taking belongings he would refuse to others? Above all - does he share his secrets? If yes, he probably loves you. This doesn’t prove he’s attracted to you, but it does prove he cares for you. Trust is precious. Even if it never goes anywhere beyond friendship, this is a relationship you should treasure.)_

Aziraphale wakes up to a delicious smell that leaves him sleep-addled and barely dressed when he walks out of his very small bedroom, because he _needs_ to know what that is. And it’s Crowley cooking in his kitchen. His suitcase is open and apparently he brought _cooking ingredients_ with him, with labels Aziraphale can’t even begin to try and read.

“What are you making?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley turns to look at him - sunglasses back on, same outfit as yesterday - and gives Aziraphale a very quick smile before he turns back. “Go get dressed, take a shower, all that. Do you have classes to go to?”

“I have class at 10:30,” Aziraphale says.

“Is it something you actually have to go to?” Crowley asks, and the answer is _technically_ no, but it’s also finals next week - and oh, isn’t that a horrifying flashback. For a moment, Aziraphale is standing in a parking lot with four duffel bags of cash in front of him and a different Adam’s corpse going cold a few hundred feet away and Crowley’s open hopeful eyes staring into his own.

If anything, the memory makes Aziraphale even more resolute. “Of course I do. It’s responsible.”

“Then you’d better hurry up,” Crowley says, and points towards the clock. It’s already 10:10.

Aziraphale makes a frantic dash for the bathroom, and then dashes out to get to his closet and grab clothing, and then back into the bathroom for the fastest shower possible. He speeds through everything, brushes his teeth while showering, doesn’t even bother trying to comb his hair, and is out of the bathroom in 9 minutes.

When he gets out, Crowley is in an entirely new outfit, a different coat on, hair neatly done, lounging at the kitchen table looking like he’s been waiting for a good hour.

“I’ll drive you,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “You don’t know where to go.”

“That’s why you tell me,” Crowley says so easily, and unlocks the door and walks out. Aziraphale waits only a moment to glance mournfully towards the pancake-but-not breakfast sitting uneaten on the stove, but then Crowley shouts, “Come _on_ , angel, you’re going to be late!” He rushes to get his coat and wallet and lock the door and get into the ridiculous rental car that Crowley’s already revving into reverse the second Aziraphale’s in.

The interior is nothing but pitch black padded leather and silver detailing, all the gages an entirely unnecessary shade of red, and Aziraphale would say something along the lines of _really, Crowley, I’m sure you know other colors exist_ but instead he finds himself trying to avoid shrieking as Crowley drives very unsafely and quickly and there’s so many pedestrians! Some of them dodge out of the way, sometimes Crowley swerves brutally hard, either way it’s a miracle nobody ends up dead.

“It’s - it’s _that_ building,” is all Aziraphale manages to get out, considering he’s busy fighting the urge to scream. It’s a short drive, very short, _thank god_ , and then Aziraphale has to sit there braced against the dashboard, breathing hard.

Crowley looks very amused, and parks the car in a fire lane. Again. He gets out and then circles the car so he can near-mockingly open Aziraphale’s door. “Do you need me to carry you?”

“I can carry myself, thank you,” Aziraphale says, and _oh no_ , Aziraphale looks around the car, but nope. But he also looks at the clock, which says 10:28, so he gets out of the car even though he doesn’t have so much as a pencil. He can borrow one, surely there’s someone who will loan him paper and a pencil. It’s fine. It’s perfectly fine.

He gets out of the car and his wet hair is brutally cold with the winter weather but it’s just one more mark in a terrible situation -

“Wait! Wait, let me do this,” Crowley says, and is pulling his coat off, and then he’s pulling _Aziraphale’s_ coat off and switches them. It is a little bit hilarious to see Crowley in an off-brand khaki coat with a pastel tartan fleece interior. (It is also very satisfying, oddly enough.) “Alright, go.”

Aziraphale is nearly into the building when Crowley shouts, “Run, angel!” If Aziraphale were a lesser person, he would stop to glare or maybe even flip him off, but Aziraphale is _not_ and he has places to be.

It isn’t until Aziraphale sits down in his regular chair and has a half-full classroom staring at him that he realizes what Crowley has achieved in the past 20 minutes. Aziraphale is currently a flushed and flustered mess with horribly mussed hair who very clearly just woke up and is wearing someone else’s coat and probably looks like he didn’t sleep at his own home since he doesn’t have his backpack, or books, or even anything to take notes with. And all of this happened after getting out of a likely now notorious car with an attractive young man who was calling him _angel,_ and doing it very loudly.

“That sneaky bastard,” Aziraphale whispers, eyes wide, amazed and mortified at the same time. He’s so stunned that he isn’t even bothered by the whispers of his class, who are all wondering what in the world happened to their usually well-prepared and put-together classmate. When he asks the nearest person for a pen and paper, he gets them nice and easy, no questions asked.

The professor, like many college professors, does not give a single fuck about the situation and begins going over material for the final.

If Aziraphale had not left his phone in his apartment as well, things would’ve turned out differently. But he did, and things proceed accordingly, meaning Aziraphale stays for the entire hour and a half review session. He’s as attentive as possible, but he realizes about ten minutes in that Crowley’s coat smells like Crowley and that’s oddly distracting.

(Crowley realized Aziraphale’s coat smells like Aziraphale about 6 seconds after the swap and couldn’t decide if it was the best or worst idea he’d had in the past two years.)

When he walks out of the classroom and into the hall, Crowley is seated in a very slouchy _him_ kind of way on a bench directly across from the door. At the sight of Aziraphale, he straightens slightly and waves, so Aziraphale restrains his sigh and walks over. This is what he asked for, after all.

“Was class fun?” Crowley asks.

“It’s good I attended, it should help with finals,” Aziraphale says, which they both know isn’t an answer to the actual question. Which means it _is_ an answer. But Aziraphale is only now beginning to realize how truly _wily_ Crowley is, so he made an executive decision while in the classroom. He lies. “That’s the last class for the day.”

“Well that’s easy,” Crowley says, and gestures for Aziraphale to join him on the bench. He does. “So what do you want to do, then? Just hunt your ex down and introduce me?”

Aziraphale does not want to do that. “Well, maybe lunch first.”

“Fair enough. Anything good around?”

With a heavy exhale, Aziraphale gives the honest answer he’s been trying not to admit for nearly two years now. “No.”

Crowley gives him a Look at that. Aziraphale can easily interpret it to mean _and you’re okay with that?_ It’s one Crowley gives him a lot.

“There aren’t many options here, Crowley, we have to make do with what’s available,” Aziraphale tries to explain. “It’s how real life goes.”

He expects Crowley to go off on the usual _you have the ability to get the things you want_ diatribe, but instead, he frowns. It’s quiet when he asks, “What happened to the idea of doing good little miracles every now and then?”

Aziraphale doesn’t know how to reply to that, but Crowley is clearly waiting for something, and...well, it hurts a little bit. Or maybe more than a little bit. But Aziraphale doesn’t want to look into that yet, he _can’t_ , not with everything else, so he does his best to smile. “Oh. That. I think you’re mixing me up with someone else.”

It’s obvious that Crowley wants to keep going, that Crowley wants to _push_ , but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks at the now-empty doorway to the classroom, straight ahead, and he makes it easy. “Alright, what’s the best of our bad lunch options?”

He makes it easy, but it’s still...a lot. Nevertheless, Aziraphale plows forward and shakes his head. “Maybe we really should just go see Adam-”

“His name is _Adam?”_ Crowley bursts out.

“I know, Crowley. I know! I don’t - things just _happened,_ and it all just kept growing bigger and bigger,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley swings in the bench slightly, so he’s fully and completely facing Aziraphale. “How can you even - I don’t know if I’m allowed to ask, but what do you call him when you’re-”

“I haven’t said his name!” The situation is _absurd_ , and thank god someone else understands. Crowley’s expression is _perfectly_ aligned with Aziraphale’s feelings on the matter. “He hasn’t even noticed! Not _once_ have I ever so much as breathed his name when we’re intimate, and he hasn’t noticed.”

“I’m amazed you didn’t dump him for the name alone,” Crowley says. And then he frowns. “I’m amazed it happened _at all_ , actually. Did you not know his name?”

“Vaguely? I knew _of_ him, mostly, it was just that things kept going! And then I thought, well, what’s the harm? It’s nice enough, he’s alright, and we’ll just move on when we move on,” Aziraphale admits. “But then he...he…”

“Fell in love with you?”

Aziraphale scoffs. “No, of course not. He hates _everything_. Or critiques everything.”

Crowley tilts his head, curious. “Does he critique you?”

“Only in little ways, and usually it’s more a critique of something else vaguely in relation to me,” Aziraphale says. “But he always wants me to hate things with him, and I _don’t._ We go see a play - that’s why this whole thing started, really, I just wanted someone to talk about theater with and then he, well, then things started - and I’ll think the play is great! And he’ll want to rip it apart!”

(And with every passing sentence out of Aziraphale’s mouth, Crowley becomes more and more certain that Adam [he’s named _Adam_ , how can Aziraphale even touch an Adam] is madly in love with Aziraphale. He also becomes more and more grateful that Aziraphale called, and that Crowley agreed to come, because if Aziraphale figures out Adam’s side of this equation then Crowley might end up being very pathetic for a very long time. Crowley wants to swat Adam _hard_ like the frustrating hateful gnat he sounds to be, but no, he’ll stick with massively upstaging him.)

They end up sitting on an uncomfortable wooden bench rambling at each other for about 90 minutes, and it’s a _delight._ Aziraphale had forgotten how relentlessly _fun_ Crowley is to speak with. It’s hard to even pinpoint why, but when Crowley’s phone rings and Crowley curses and excuses himself for just a minute or two, he has time to think it over. And he thinks it’s that he trusts Crowley, sort of. He wouldn’t trust Crowley with his (theoretical) grandmother’s purse or anywhere near a button that says DO NOT PUSH, VERY DANGEROUS, but with internal landscape Aziraphale things? Absolutely. But there has to be a better way to phrase that.

When Crowley walks back over with a tight smile that positively screams _I have a new secret,_ Aziraphale comes up with a better way to put it. _I’d trust Crowley with my life and absolutely nothing else._

“Let’s eat,” Aziraphale says, and very deliberately holds Crowley’s hand as they head out of the building, coats still swapped. “There’s a diner that’s not bad. Pizza, too, if you like that sort of thing.”

“You choose,” Crowley says, and smiles at him. “You’re the one paying, after all.”

Aziraphale doesn’t bother arguing, and instead takes Crowley to a diner just a couple blocks away from campus. To be fair, nothing is more than six blocks from campus, since there’s not that many blocks in town. It’s nowhere near as busy as usual around lunchtime, but that’s very likely to do with the number of people frantically trying to catch up with classwork. The food is...well, it’s _okay_ , but the company is significantly better. 

At this point, Aziraphale is starting to just accept that he hasn’t spent the past 18 or so months exaggerating how well they get along. So long as Crowley doesn’t start doing crime or complaining that Aziraphale needs to stop trying so hard to be normal, every moment is wonderful. And Crowley makes him feel like his life is _interesting,_ with how he hangs off every word of every tiny anecdote about the time between their meetings.

Meanwhile, Crowley manages to make his blatantly fascinating life - Aziraphale has _seen_ the postcards, after all - sound entirely dull and like Aziraphale certainly wouldn’t be interested in hearing details. He only provides sparks of events, tiny details in a grand scheme he veers around in a way Aziraphale desperately wishes he would also apply to pedestrians.

“Oh, camels are just...big. And they _smell,_ god how they smell. That’s the _other_ reason you have to wrap your face up,” Crowley is saying. They’re seated in a horseshoe-shaped booth, and Aziraphale doesn’t quite know how they ended up sitting directly next to each other at the apex, Crowley’s arm slung over the top of the booth and therefore kind of over Aziraphale’s shoulders. Sort of. Aziraphale is deliberately ignoring how fixated his mind seems to be on that fact. “With a horse, which is _also_ big and smelly and awful, you’ve at least got solid reliable stirrups when you’re trying to climb onto the thing’s back.”

“Aren’t you supposed to have the camel sit down?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley goes quiet at that, which is more than enough of an answer.

He can’t help it. Aziraphale bursts out laughing at the mental image of Crowley, black-clad in his oh so cool sunglasses, trying to scramble up a six foot tall camel that was probably quickly losing patience with him. It reaches the point of tears in his eyes, which make it a bit more difficult to see the blatant blush on Crowley’s cheeks and it’s _adorable._

Scowling, yet blushing, Crowley says, “It’s not _that_ funny.”

“Oh, of course it’s not, dear, of course it’s not,” Aziraphale says, and tries to compose himself, wiping at the tears as he fights to at least get himself down to chuckling. “Dare I ask how many people were watching?”

“You absolutely do not dare, we’ll get kicked out at this rate,” Crowley says, but the blushing scowl has at least turned into a small blushing smile.

It’s probably an ideal situation for when the inevitable happens - it’s not a very big town, after all - but Adam showing up feels like an intrusion. This is time he gets to spend with Crowley, and that’s _rare_ , not even an annual event, and they’re having a lovely meal and instead of a lovely time there’s Adam very loudly clearing his throat at the front of the table.

Aziraphale is so busy being surprised and dealing with the cognitive dissonance of _Crowley_ in the same instance of reality as _Adam_ that he doesn’t introduce him or anything. And that’s why Crowley says, “Oh, sure, we’ll take the check.”

“That’s Adam,” Aziraphale hisses at him, and then puts on his best smile. “Adam, this is Crowley-”

“Sit, please,” Crowley says, but there’s a bit of a _command_ to it as he reaches to shake Adam’s hand. 

Adam shakes it and sits. When he speaks, it’s feeble and directed towards Aziraphale. “I thought you’re not actually English.”

“I’m not, but he is,” Aziraphale says, but then _thinks_ for a moment, and frowns at Crowley. “Wait, _are_ you-”

“Technically I’m Swedish at the moment,” Crowley says, and gives Adam a very blatant look-over. Even with the sunglasses, it’s unavoidably obvious. “So, _Adam._ ” (He gives Aziraphale a Look at the name, _again.)_ “I’d like you to know there’s no hard feelings. I can understand how difficult this probably is, and respect that. As I see it, this entire situation is Aziraphale’s fault, and I think we’ve worked that out between ourselves, so don’t worry. We can all move on with our lives.”

It’s very clear that Adam has some sort of prepared statement, but it’s now a bit superfluous since Crowley more or less opened and closed the subject in under 30 seconds. He probably expected someone a lot more like himself - analytical yet emotional, driven by his heart but tries not to show it, someone not really capable of letting go when he cares. And also someone boring who thinks _new_ is short for _new target._

But Adam goes for it anyway. “I’ve spent the last six months falling in love with Aziraphale, and not once has he mentioned you-”

“That’d be because I’m wanted by both the police _and_ criminals here in America. Mentioning me is a bad idea,” Crowley says with a smile.

Oh, that’s very good. So Aziraphale, rather apologetically, says, “He’s not a very good person.”

Adam looks appropriately dazed. But he looks at Aziraphale, and it hurts a little to see how distraught he is. “You’re one of those people who likes bad boys?”

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale says, and tries not to be offended. And fails. “I like a boy and he just _happens_ to be bad, I didn’t know when everything started! I thought he was just a weird boy in sunglasses!”

“Why _are_ you wearing sunglasses?” Adam asks.

Aziraphale knows that tone, it’s the reel-in-for-criticism tone, and Aziraphale _refuses_ to let him attack the single vulnerability he _knows_ Crowley has, so he puffs up a bit and says, “Because his eyes are so beautiful it’s a little hypnotic if you look at them. The sunglasses are a matter of public safety.”

The table goes quiet.

“Well, I was going to say it’s because I look good in them,” Crowley says. It’s a semblance of casual, but Aziraphale can hear the tension beneath. “But...thank you, I think?”

“It’s true,” Aziraphale says, and he’s oddly - well, no it’s not odd, this is the one issue that always makes him want to take care of Crowley, _defend_ Crowley. He finds himself pointing a finger at Adam, who he _knows_ will try to start again, and glares. “Do _not_ start on that. Don’t start on _anything._ Don’t so much as try to touch him.” The finger swings over to Crowley. “And you do _not_ take those sunglasses off. I don’t care what anyone says. If you want them on they stay on and everyone else can be damned.”

Yet again, the table goes quiet. Adam looks at Aziraphale like he doesn’t even recognize him, which is probably true. There’s been nothing particularly noteworthy for the past six months, so Aziraphale has had no particularly noteworthy outbursts of any kind. He hasn’t laughed this hard, hasn’t scowled this much, hasn’t _felt_ so deeply at any point when Adam has been around.

“How could it take you _six months_ to fall in love with him?” Crowley asks, like it’s the most shameful thing he’s ever heard, to the point of something like pain in his voice. Then he starts to shift out of the booth. “Let’s go.”

Aziraphale frowns, but obliges, shuffling his way out of the horseshoe booth while Crowley tosses a $100 bill on the table. “But-”

“He’s done, angel. Show some mercy,” Crowley says, and walks out faster than Aziraphale could ever possibly catch up.

Maybe he should apologize to Adam, or try to say something nice, but he doesn’t want to look back. This is the whole reason he asked Crowley to show up, and he’s not going to demean Crowley’s efforts by giving Adam some sort of attempt at a parting consolation.

Outside, winter is keeping itself to a sensation more like getting out of a hot tub at night than the true biting drag of freezing. Crowley’s coat is warm enough to keep him comfortable, although some nice toasty gloves would be welcome. Aziraphale buttons himself up tightly, but Crowley is standing around like Aziraphale’s coat is more a fashion accessory than something to keep him warm in cold weather. He’s standing next to the rental car, looking up at the clouded sky.

“Thank you for that,” Aziraphale says when he’s close enough to not be shouting across the parking lot. “I’m sorry about the end there, he was about to get mean and I didn’t want to deal with that.”

“You could’ve just stopped at _don’t do that,”_ Crowley says, and stops cloud-gazing but still doesn’t look at Aziraphale. “And going into a rhapsodic soliloquy about my _eyes-”_

Aziraphale winces. “I’m _really_ sorry, I just - he was going to be mean to you!”

“And I can’t deal with that?” Crowley asks, and finally looks at Aziraphale. It’s entirely so he can convey how very unimpressed he is with Aziraphale’s behavior, and do it with one raised eyebrow. “I can take care of myself.”

Crowley is being completely pigheaded, so Aziraphale tries to explain. “Yes, but I get to do it too. I want to keep you safe, and if I can do it, I will. Because I care.”

Crowley opens his mouth, and there’s a jumble of sound that Aziraphale vaguely hears as, “Is _that,_ if it’s - _really_ what you, but you. That’s how this works? Us? That’s how?” Which Aziraphale interprets as _oh, is that how friendship works?_

“That’s how _we_ work, at least,” Aziraphale declares to be the absolute truth of their relationship. Crowley seems too flustered to second-guess him. “Maybe this is a talk we should’ve had earlier.”

“Mmhmm. Yeah. Maybe,” Crowley agrees, and Aziraphale is starting to get worried because he isn’t calming down. If anything, he’s getting _worse_ , pulling his car keys out and nearly dropping them in the process. “I’ve - this was fun? We should do it again some time.”

Aziraphale frowns, unable to follow exactly where Crowley’s going. “Demean my ex-boyfriend again?”

“Sure, we can do that too if you’d like, I’m perfectly fine with whatever you choose,” Crowley says, and he’s looking down at his keys. “Everything’s - that’s how it works?”

Figuring out why Crowley is so _stuck_ on the idea of Aziraphale wanting to keep bad things from happening to him takes an embarrassing amount of time.

It’s because Aziraphale’s the first person to ever do it.

This is first time Crowley breaks his heart. Aziraphale stands there and watches Crowley try to process the concept of someone caring about him, tries to give him whatever time is necessary. Even with the sunglasses, he can see Crowley’s mind short circuited and is trying to rebuild itself into something that understands.

(This is only partly true. Yes, Aziraphale is the first person to declare he wants to defend and take care of Crowley. This is something Crowley is aware of, and really does mean a lot to him, absolutely, but it also reminds him of Aziraphale tackling him to the floor in a storage room when they were about to kiss because Aziraphale thought he was shielding Crowley from bullets. Crowley thinks about that a lot. He has convinced himself over the years that Aziraphale is an inherently Good person and would probably do that for anyone. Having explicit evidence that _it was specifically for me and Aziraphale wants to keep doing it and omg omg he said my eyes are pretty he called me pretty_ has Crowley screaming internally so loudly he can barely process what Aziraphale is saying, let alone reply.)

“Let’s at least get in the car. It’s cold out,” Aziraphale says when he can tell Crowley is at least breathing steadily again.

Crowley nods and complies. “Right, it’s winter. And you have finals, so.” He pauses. “I should probably let you focus on that. It’s important.”

An increasingly large part of Aziraphale wants to say _I don’t care about finals_ and ask if he can join Crowley on whatever his next trip is. But instead, Aziraphale nods. “I should go study. All my things are in my apartment.”

“Okay,” Crowley says, and soon enough they’re on another nightmare drive through town.

The ideal scenario, if this Aziraphale was a luckier Aziraphale, would be this:

They park the car and go inside. Aziraphale does his best to study like a responsible student but Crowley decides to take a nap, and Aziraphale keeps staring at him trying to figure out this bizarre feeling of attraction-but-soft-except-when-it-burns, and Crowley opens his eyes. After a good two minutes of silent staring, he holds out a hand to Aziraphale and says, “You can join if you want.”

And this luckier Aziraphale is a bit braver, too, because after some internal panic, he takes Crowley’s hand. Crowley pulls him the rest of the way to the couch, and it’s Aziraphale who squeezes his eyes shut and wraps his arms around Crowley, who lets out a heavy relieved breath he’s been holding for _three years_ and leans back until they’re curled together cuddling on the couch. Aziraphale kisses him, and Crowley kisses back, and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him-

But this is not a luckier Aziraphale. Here’s how it actually goes:

“Is that smoke?” Crowley asks three blocks away. And two blocks away, Crowley asks, “Is that smoke from your apartment building?”

Aziraphale says, “Oh, no.”

“Is that your apartment building _on fire?!”_ Crowley asks, and it is. It absolutely is. The whole thing is blazing like there’s no tomorrow, and Aziraphale doesn’t know how he could’ve possibly missed the column of smoke rising into the air. Aziraphale is out of the car before Crowley even has it fully parked on the street nearby, but he doesn’t get very far because they’re trying to keep people away from the fire.

How did this happen? _How_ did this-

_Crowley._

They had rushed out of Aziraphale’s apartment, and Crowley had been making something for breakfast. And it had still been cooking and smelling lovely when they rushed out the door. Crowley left the stove on and then they ran out without giving it another thought for hours and hours and now Aziraphale’s _entire life_ is burning down.

And because Crowley is smart, Aziraphale knows he figures it out too. Mostly because Crowley makes a mortally wounded sort of noise and says, “Oh no, _no,_ I was - it wasn’t-”

It’s Brussels all over again.

Aziraphale turns, and _glares._

Crowley panics.

“It wasn’t intentional! Why would I do this? Why would I want to burn your apartment down?” Crowley shouts over the roaring flames. Aziraphale is not impressed, and Crowley’s hands are moving a lot - through his hair, pressed over his mouth, rubbing at his eyes behind the sunglasses - as he continues. “Look. We can fix this. We can figure this out.”

“How are you going to find a solution to _burning my apartment down?_ Buy me a new one? Rebuild the complex? Any chance you can recover a year and a half of class work too?” Aziraphale is starting to panic right along with Crowley. “God, finals are _next week!”_

“I’ll help, whatever you need,” Crowley says. “We can - two people can do more than one, right? I can - I can write papers, I can steal other people’s class notes, I _will_ make this okay-”

“It’s not just papers, Crowley, it’s not…” Aziraphale covers his face, but he can still _hear_ the fire and the fire hoses, the sirens, Crowley’s panicky promises.

His classwork was important not just because he needs it for finals, but because his grades were dropping. They had been ever since he’d finally stopped parroting back his class notes. Spending so much time with an overly-critical artistic connoisseur had given Aziraphale an urge to say _actually, I think this book was good, and want to say good things. Here’s what, and why._ His professors hadn’t liked it as much, but his most recent papers - well, it’s lower grades, but it’s...it’s writing in which Aziraphale dares to voice an opinion.

It’s his computer’s newly customized desktop image, and his slowly but steadily accumulating personal music collection on it. It’s his playbills, his old tickets to musicals, his already-purchased ticket to Northwestern’s first real attempt at an opera that’s opening the week after finals. It’s his dresser full of clothing Aziraphale has dared to buy himself, new and self-chosen instead of generic hand-me-downs shared with the past 20 children his size.

It’s the misprinted books with such incomprehensible typography he _had_ to buy them, stuffed in the back of the bookstore. The owner had started collecting those for Aziraphale (or more accurately stopped throwing them out because she had someone who would actually buy them), and he bought every single one. They’re useless and impractical, but he buys them every time.

But the worst is Crowley’s postcards. Even if he sat Crowley down right now and had him write _Wish you were here, but you’re not_ on perfectly identical postcards, it wouldn’t be the same. The dates. The stamps. The worn corners and fading ink. The memory of when he pulled it out of his mailbox and looked at the front and imagine if the back was wrong for once and Aziraphale _was_ there, roaming the world with Crowley. Seeing things. Doing things.

Aziraphale drops his hands, and looks. He watches himself burn.

“Please, Aziraphale, _please,”_ Crowley begs. “I’m _sorry,_ I-”

“I know,” Aziraphale says, because there’s a reason he’d hoarded those postcards. Ever since they first met, Crowley has been the one person pushing him to actually be himself, and each message had been a subtle shove, prodding Aziraphale to do _something,_ no matter how small. So, he sighs, and tries to smile for Crowley. “I know it’s an accident, dear, don’t worry. It’s - it’s upsetting is all. There was no malice in this and you’re very sorry, and I _know_ that, I don’t doubt it in the slightest, but you’re still at fault, understand? And that’s a bit difficult. It’s _very_ difficult. Because that’s. That’s my _home,_ Crowley.”

“What can I do?” Crowley asks. “Anything. Name it.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and tries to think over the _loss_ , the pain he still hasn’t quite figured out. “I think get me a hotel room and leave me alone until tomorrow. Or the day after. Or the week - some time. Enough time. To think and _breathe_ and figure out what, god, what am I going to do, Crowley? Everything’s gone. It’s all just _gone.”_

He looks at Crowley like there might be answers in his eyes, but there’s only pain. It’s soft when he says, “Alright, let’s get you to a hotel. Okay?”

There’s no fight left. When Crowley reaches out to gently pull Aziraphale towards the car, he goes.

The drive is silent and calm for most of the way. It’s only broken when Crowley says, voice a bit rough, “Can I check on you in the morning?”

It’s barely 4pm, but all Aziraphale wants to do is sleep.

“Fine,” Aziraphale says, and the car goes back to being very very quiet as they pull up to one of the two hotels in town. It’s much nicer than the Garden of Eden was, two floors with a pool that’s so small it’s more like a lukewarm hot tub near the lobby.

Crowley gets two rooms. One is for the night, and the other is indefinite, to be charged to his card for as long as the room is needed. The indefinite room key goes to Aziraphale, and the rooms are separated by the stairs and another four doors, which is impressive considering it’s not a very big hotel.

“At least my suitcase is gone too. That seems fair,” Crowley says with a small wry smile when he hands the keycard over. It fades quickly when Aziraphale doesn’t smile back. “If you want dinner, if you want _anything,_ let me know. I’ll get it.”

Aziraphale simply nods, and goes to his room. He doesn’t have anything to read, doesn’t have any interest in turning on the TV - they didn’t have one at home and he’s never really gotten into the habit - so he just sits and looks out the window, watching the smoke billow up into the gray clouds above.

There are fixed reactive events on some people’s lives. If _this_ happens, then _this_ happens, too. For this particular sequence of choices, the reactive event had been all but guaranteed ever since a bizarre $100,000 check showed up at his house about two years ago. Oh, there were plenty of other switches that were flipped that would also make this Aziraphale have his visitor - the biggest of these being the Brussels trip - but in this version, all those triggers did was ensure that no matter what choices were made later, this would happen.

The specifics of those choices don’t matter. What matters is that at about 8pm, there’s a knock on his door. The knock is inevitable.

It is also ineffable. Everyone gave up on understanding some of Mother’s choices decades ago.

“Aziraphale?” Mother calls through the door. “Open the door. We need to talk.”


	5. The Spies Who Loved Me, Supposedly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Le Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MhkPWV97GQU)

There are some lessons so thoroughly ingrained in someone’s mind during childhood that it’s practically programming, an automatic response that would take an impossibly monumental amount of effort to disobey without warning. Some people spend the rest of their lives fighting that programming. Others, like Aziraphale in this moment, aren’t aware it even exists until it’s controlling him.

_ Open the door, _ Mother says, and Aziraphale does it immediately, without a thought.

Well, that’s not true. He has thoughts like  _ oh god oh god oh god oh fuck it’s Mother it’s  _ **_Mother_ ** but nothing useful. Nothing that so much as recognizes the fact his body unlocks the door and opens it immediately, and greets Mother with words of welcome that don’t register beyond the fact Aziraphale is making noises that mean something.

Meanwhile, every word Mother says, every step and gesture is burned into Aziraphale’s mind. She walks in and says to close the door, and Aziraphale immediately closes the door. Mother turns on the light switch herself. Aziraphale hadn’t even realized they were off.

Mother sits down on the bed, and smiles at Aziraphale before patting the bed next to her. Aziraphale sits. Immediately, he obeys.

“It’s been very interesting to see how you’ve turned around in the past few years, Aziraphale,” Mother says,  _ what does it mean. _ “We were all planning to let you go on your merry way, and then something happened to you when you were 17. You can tell me what it was, if you want to.”

Oddly, it’s a  _ choice _ this time. It’s not an auto-response torn from him before Aziraphale even registers his body moving. But it’s  _ Mother, _ so she wants to know, but Crowley - oh god, Crowley, he needs to get Crowley out, and he has the mental image of Mother knocking on  _ Crowley’s _ door and Aziraphale finds himself saying, “I met -”  _ no no no _ “- a murderer, she’d just killed someone and the body was right there. I helped her escape.”

“That’s quite a story,” Mother says, but there’s no clear suspicion he’s withholding information, just her comment echoing in Aziraphale’s mind. “I can see why that would change your path. Is that what happened to the car?” Aziraphale nods. “I see. Later events changed you too. No, you don’t have to tell me. I already know. But you’re coming with me now. Events are in motion, and you’ll be joining them.”

Aziraphale fights it. He  _ fights, _ it feels like he’s about to have a heart attack and Mother isn’t looking at him, Mother pulled something out of her pocket and seems to be reading it, and Mother is not explicitly telling him to do something so Aziraphale does not  _ disobey, _ he merely comments, “My finals are next week.”

“I’ll make sure they grade you well,” Mother says, and stands up. “We’re leaving, and we’ll be on the road for a few hours. Grab anything you need, use the bathroom, do whatever you require so we don’t have to stop.”

“Yes, Mother,” Aziraphale says.

Mother gives him a reassuring smile. “This is a  _ good  _ thing, Aziraphale. It’s difficult to leave things behind, but it’s for the best. It’s what you were born for,” she says, and there’s a sincere sweetness when she puts a hand on his cheek. “You’re going to be so wonderful.”

And she leaves the room.

Aziraphale can breathe, but he also can’t, because now that Mother is not with him he doesn’t know where she is or what she’s doing and if she sees Crowley, if she  _ knows _ about Crowley  _ (and of course she does), _ god. He doesn’t know her plans or her intentions or have any clue what would happen if Mother and Crowley encounter each other but he is not going to risk that.

He can’t call he can’t go running to Crowley’s room he can’t shout so Aziraphale tries a new thing and pulls out his phone and  _ SMS Messages _ to his contact *DON’T* and sends 7778866.  _ run _

Seconds later, Aziraphale gets back  _ r u ok _

Messages take forever, and there’s the incessant beep from his keypad every time he pushes a button and Aziraphale doesn’t know how to make it silent. It feels like it takes an eternity, but he manages to send Crowley the words  _ mothers here. run leave now asap _

At a blistering speed that makes Aziraphale slightly jealous, Crowley texts back - in capital letters, which Aziraphale didn’t even know was an option.  _ ARE YOU OK _

The answer is probably no, considering his body seems to turn into an automated servant the moment Mother asks for something, but if he says that then Crowley will try to help, so Aziraphale texts back,  _ yes shes my mom now go _ in the hopes Crowley will ignore everything he knows about Aziraphale’s background in favor of obedience and/or self-preservation.

But his time is up. Outside the room, Mother calls, “Aziraphale, we need to get going.”

“Yes, Mother,” Aziraphale says, and he doesn’t have anything to grab because his apartment just burned down. All he has is the clothes on his back, and he’s still wearing Crowley’s coat. He keeps his phone close, and hidden, and walks out.

Mother smiles at him. “Do you want to say goodbye to your friend?”

Of course Mother knows, it’s  _ Mother. _ But she’s asking a question again. He has a choice. “How long until I can come back?”

“When it comes to saying goodbye, it’s always best to imagine it’s your last,” Mother says. “You may never see each other again, or you may be reunited five minutes later. Either way, if there’s something to be said, it’s always best to say it. People should try to live a life with no regrets.”

It’s wise and sincere and Aziraphale is pretty sure it actually means  _ you are never coming back. _

“I’ll say goodbye,” Aziraphale says, and walks over to Crowley’s door, and knocks. Mother stands midway down the hall, next to the stairs, waiting. There’s no reply on Crowley’s end, and Aziraphale clears his throat and calls, very carefully, “Hello? Are you there?”

No reply.

He doesn’t know what happened, but he  _ does _ know that if Crowley was in that room, he would open the door. Maybe he did actually listen to Aziraphale and run, which would be refreshing. But Aziraphale pulls out the pencil he borrowed earlier (with the full intention of giving it back, up until he was distracted by Crowley’s existence) and his notes. The back of the paper is still empty, and it’s good enough.

Aziraphale writes a note.

_ Dear Crowley, Mother is taking me away for a while. I don’t know for how long, but I do know that I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Maybe it’ll even be fun. The bank will get my details when I have some to give.  _ And he hesitates, because it’s...well, it might be a bit too much, but Aziraphale writes what he’s always wanted to write back.  _ I may not be where you are, but I always wish I was. -Aziraphale. _

It seems weird to just sign his name for some reason, like it might be considered deceptive, so Aziraphale goes along with Crowley’s stupid joke and draws a halo and wings on the capital A of his signature, and then slides it under the door. Hopefully Crowley will enjoy the Modernist Literature 211 review notes on the back, too.

“Are you done?” Mother asks, and Aziraphale nods. “Then let’s go. I’ll explain on the way.”

Aziraphale’s body turns and follows Mother, and of course Crowley is in the lobby, of course he’s talking to the front desk, looking very serious and stressed. There’s a comfortable luxury car waiting outside the doors, and it’s clearly Mother’s ride because Aziraphale vaguely recognizes the driver who is holding the door like a chauffeur. It’s one of his brothers that was picked up when Aziraphale was still very young.

“Make your friend leave you alone,” Mother says, and Aziraphale’s feet immediately veer towards Crowley. Crowley looks a bit scared, and a lot desperate.

“I knocked on your door, but you weren’t there, so I left a note,” Aziraphale says before Crowley can speak, and gives Crowley a smile. “But Mother isn’t upset with you, and this...it’s going to be okay, so don’t worry. I’ll call you later.”

“We can run,” Crowley says, quiet and dead serious. “You don’t have to do this.”

Aziraphale shuts his eyes for a moment,  _ breathes, _ and opens them again to give Crowley the most fondly irritated look he can. “That’s not how this works. I’m not a damsel in distress, Crowley, I’m a son getting into a car with Mother.”

It’s the oddest thing, how he can’t say  _ my mother _ or  _ mom. _ It’s always Mother. Only Mother.

“You need to let me go, and not follow us. Stay away from me,” Aziraphale says, and turns and walks towards Mother’s car as quickly as possible so he doesn’t see Crowley or hear Crowley or think about him.

Brother-chauffeur shuts the door behind Aziraphale, and then it’s him and Mother in the back of the car. Mother smiles at him again. “Everyone’s nervous when they leave one life for something different. In time, you’ll wonder why you were ever so worried about getting back.”

Aziraphale hopes that Mother telling him to  _ feel _ things won’t work on him like every other command has.

On this drive, which Aziraphale quickly recognizes as the drive to the closest international airport, Mother gives a very convoluted explanation of what’s happening, and what has previously happened. It is long and somewhat confusing, particularly if you haven’t spent most of your life being unwittingly conditioned to  _ immediately _ obey Mother’s commands and understand some very uncommon things at a very young age.

So here is a more non-Aziraphale-friendly explanation.

Once upon a time, there was an organization. If you work for the organization, you are an Agent, and the higher-ups are called Upstairs, and above it all is Mother. Always it’s Mother. She is very rarely around, and nobody knows her plan or goals, but is undeniably the absolute authority and the organization’s almighty leader. Almost all of the agents, like Aziraphale, obey Mother just how he does. Immediately.

This organization is focused on thwarting sinister plans throughout the world, and tries to be very secret. Their goal of secrecy has varying levels of success, mostly due to agents. They’re sent to areas around the world and then expected to observe and report any untoward activity, which Upstairs will then evaluate so the agent can be told what to do. While this  _ sounds _ very exciting, it usually isn’t. Usually, it’s an agent hanging around the same area for months. Years. Sometimes decades. They become familiar with the area, and the people, and with that familiarity comes relationships, and often with relationships comes babies.

A field agent position is usually boring for 90% of their time, but the 10% which remains can be ruthless, brutal, and leave the lives of everyone in your assigned location in your hands when evil plans need to be thwarted in the area. Sometimes, this 10% of an agent’s duties end with a tragedy. Sometimes they fail, and they die. Other times, when an agent  _ succeeds, _ bad people want revenge. None of these things combine well with having children.

Aziraphale has idly wondered about his parents every now and then, but being completely surrounded by other children in the same situation, orphanhood never particularly bothered him. He was, oh, 7 or so when he was moved in and joined the family, and intellectually he knew that there  _ should _ be some sort of memories of wherever he came from. But nobody else ever mentioned a time Before, and like so many things in Aziraphale’s childhood, he never thought to question it.

Mother explains where he came from simply by reaching into a folder and pulling out a family photo. Aziraphale can see pieces of his own face in the couple smiling out at him, each of them holding a child. One is a girl. The other is Aziraphale, who looks to be slightly younger.

“I have a sister?” Aziraphale asks, stunned.

“Not anymore. Your sister and parents were killed. That’s why you were brought to the house, for your own protection,” Mother says.

According to Mother, his family is comprised entirely of orphaned or endangered children of the organization’s agents. Some of the children, when they’re taken away, are actually taken to meet their families again. Most find themselves in one of the two situations Aziraphale could’ve experienced. One is being told he’d be left to his own devices, deemed  _ normal _ and permitted to live an appropriately normal life. The other is this, here. Recruitment. While Mother calls it recruitment, Aziraphale believes  _ selection _ is a better word, as Mother hasn’t exactly given him a choice

But now that Aziraphale has been recruited, he’ll be serving the same great organization and cause that his dead family did, and can honor their memories. Apparently they’re ignoring that ‘their memories’ are something Aziraphale definitely doesn’t have. Mother is taking him Upstairs, where he’ll be trained and taught and evaluated and then given a noble assignment that has a 10% chance to actually matter and also possibly kill him.

He’s a  _ literature major, _ for god’s sake. He sat close to the front of his classrooms at Northwestern just so he didn’t have to walk another 10 feet.

“You and your siblings are special, Aziraphale,” Mother says. They drove to the airport and they’re on a chartered plane and he doesn’t know where he’s going but Mother said to get on the airplane so he did. Immediately. “Most agents have to be taught things that  _ you  _ do instinctively. Training you focuses on honing and refining abilities rather than teaching them. This work is where you belong. It’s what you were born for.”

As they fly who knows where, Mother flipping through file folders Aziraphale doesn’t get to look at and Chauffeur-Brother sitting nearby staring at clouds without moving for literal hours, he becomes more and more certain that he should’ve tried to run.

(There is no realistic timeline in which Aziraphale tries to run. The closest is one where Crowley has a breakdown after there’s been a series of drastic differences in  _ his _ timeline and tries to abduct Aziraphale for his own good. It doesn’t end well.)

But what matters is that the journey eventually ends with Aziraphale, Mother, and Chauffeur-Brother in a helicopter, dropping onto the rooftop of the highest skyscraper  _ (this version of) _ Aziraphale has ever seen. He expects to be terrified, but the height is more mesmerizing, maybe even awe-inspiring. When they land, Mother doesn’t get out of the helicopter. She tells him to go to the people waiting for him. Aziraphale goes, immediately. As he obeys, Mother takes off and is gone again.

The people waiting for Aziraphale are agents who work Upstairs. They smile at him, and introduce themselves, and then they take him downstairs into a building he doesn’t leave for 8 months.

And intellectually, Aziraphale is aware that this is wrong, and he probably  _ should _ run, but it’s hard to remember when someone hands you an outfit and points towards a curtain and says  _ change in there _ and then when you walk out they point you to another room where there’s another task, and another room with a task, and another task, and then bed and waking up and another task and another place and another place and another and another until 8 months have passed.

He has only eaten what they’ve given him, only read what they offered, only spoken with the other new agents. He’s in a class of twelve recruits, with Aziraphale the only  _ legacy _ agent, and maybe Mother had a point. It’s not that he’s more capable, it’s that he’s already familiar with things like terminology, tactics, the organization’s moral codes. He already has all the deep information everyone else is having impressed upon them. They’re getting indoctrinated while Aziraphale’s getting a refresher course, like a booster shot for a serum that had just started wearing off.

“Is there any chance of getting a vacation?” Aziraphale asks one of their lead instructors about 2 months in.

The lead instructor does not look happy with the question. “Aziraphale, your priority is  _ here, _ learning these skills and understanding these lessons. Besides, the enemy likely knows you’re here with us now. We can’t endanger you like that, not until you have the ability to defend yourself.”

Break rooms have TVs and books in them, but the TVs are always set to old sitcoms, nature documentaries, or The Sound of Music. Aziraphale didn’t mind The Sound of Music at first, but over and over and over and over and  _ over and over _ \- yes. Point is, Aziraphale has become a big fan of documentaries.

Training covers a variety of topics, but focuses mostly on observation and subterfuge, as well as teaching agents at least two reliable organization codes. Aziraphale has to learn six, because it turns out that not everyone was expected to regularly decode any notes or messages from their family. He already knows the most basic code the organization uses by heart, to the point he can easily write an essay entirely in code. Who knew?

There is also a dreaded weaponry and self-defense portion of agent training, but, well. Aziraphale is...uncomfortable with guns and shooting people and things like that. Thankfully the training seems most focused on keeping people from shooting themselves or others in the foot. That’s a lesson he can agree with.

And when they strip down and clean a gun Aziraphale is criticized for doing it the wrong way, because he is thinking back to being 17 in a room with a corpse named Adam and a pregnant murderer named Eve and a boy named Crowley who did it like  _ this, _ not the organization’s very specific technique.

The fitness portion is a nightmare that Aziraphale eventually is flat out excused from since he can barely do ten jumping jacks and shows no signs of improvement. They make him learn another language instead.

Aziraphale is so swarmed with lessons and training and an infinite barrage of small tasks that he forgets about everything else.

(That’s why it still takes 8 months. It’s not just lessons, it’s making sure they instill loyalty, and to ensure that loyalty will  _ stay. _ All the more reason that legacy agents are so valuable. It’s much more difficult to betray family than to betray an employer.)

Let us consolidate things. 

Some parts in the next few years hurt too much to expand.

At 8 months, Aziraphale is more used to reading in code than standard text, and when he  _ does _ read non-encrypted text, it becomes frustrating because he is looking for something that isn’t there, so he doesn’t actively seek out literature anymore. They have been trained to understand the importance of being  _ generic _ , because generic sinks into the background, so he seeks out nondescript clothing that would fit in, but hide in the background. They praise him for his selections, how very normal he looks. Aziraphale remembers rather quickly how to keep his head down and stay silent, just like at home.

Hide. Stay quiet. Attention is the enemy, attention  _ hurts you, _ if they see you they’ll hurt you so you need to blend in, be quiet, head down, so quiet,  _ so quiet or they’ll get you- _

After those 8 months, Aziraphale gets an assignment. There’s little to say about it, because the assignment was to help one of the older agents with their duties. It was also to evaluate whether or not an agent even needed to be stationed there. The organization sends him to a sleepy town on the south island of New Zealand as the grandson of their agent, who is in her 70s and gives Aziraphale a tired smile every time she sees him. All of her smiles are tired. Everything about her is tired.

Aziraphale gets a job in the small general store, and listens, and watches, and does his best to evaluate the assignment.

A couple months in, during which the worst thing that’s happened is Aziraphale and his fake grandmother have had to fend off matchmaking attempts, Aziraphale sits in her small cottage, near the warm fireplace, and asks, “Why were you stationed here?”

Fake Grandmother looks out the window, seeing something long gone. “Because when they put me here, there was...something. Something in the hills. Something that  _ needed _ watching.” She laughs, and turns to give him that same smile that speaks of decades of work that came to absolutely nothing. “Whatever it was, it’s gone. I never saw it. But they kept me here,  _ just  _ in case.”

Two weeks later, Fake Grandmother abruptly says during their shared dinner, “I was a dancer, once. A pole dancer, specifically. And I loved it, even if it was hard work. The lights, the shouting, the…” She sighs. Tired. “Being wanted so desperately they’d pay, knowing they’d never get to do more than look.”

Aziraphale, a gay 21 year old who has never in his life wanted to go to a strip club, isn’t quite sure what to say to a wrinkled woman in her 70s getting nostalgic about her youth as an erotic dancer. It’s not a judgmental sort of silence, more...difficulty equating a successful pole dancer with woman who sometimes has trouble getting out of chairs.

“I’d forgotten about that for a long time. Didn’t remember until there wasn’t anything left to watch here,” Fake Grandmother says idly, and goes back to her dinner.

At three months on his assignment, Aziraphale comes back to the cottage to find Fake Grandmother dead. It’s not the first dead body he’s found, but it’s the first dead body he’s found that he actually knew as a living breathing person. He notifies Upstairs as quickly as possible, and they send flowers and pay for all funeral arrangements and before they close the lid of Fake Grandmother’s coffin he stuffs a few bills in her belt. The entire town thinks he’s bizarre for it, but thankfully, Aziraphale doesn’t much care and is on his way out the next day anyway.

In his evaluation, Aziraphale notes that Fake Grandma served admirably, provides glowing commendations for her efforts, and notes the small contributions to the community he learned about. When he gets back to Upstairs, his supervisor’s reply to the report is a noncommittal  _ mmhm _ noise and the question, “Is it worth replacing her?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, and is given another job.

This time, he stays Upstairs, and has his assigned quarters in the building, and his job is mostly accounting. It’s a  _ very _ big organization, it turns out, and it has an awful lot of bills to pay. He takes to it very well, and gets a commendation for hard work and dedication.

One of his coworkers, who really does seem to work harder than Aziraphale, is upset about it, but another coworker isn’t quiet enough for Aziraphale to miss it when she says, “He’s a  _ legacy _ agent, of course this happened. You know what that means. You know why he’s  _ actually _ getting an award.”

His coworker is significantly less upset after that. He also starts looking a bit like he pities Aziraphale, which isn’t fun.

The next time Aziraphale is given a mission, he’s 24 and  _ very _ used to his desk job. Very used to not leaving the building. Very used to a lot of things. They tell him where to go, what to eat, who to talk to, when to work and when to stop working, and he’s fine with it. He could leave if he wanted, probably, but Aziraphale hasn’t really tried. There are parts of his job that he legitimately enjoys, and always wants to see what accounts come in the following day. It’s a bit like a soap opera, when you get to know the bills and purchases behind them. The office in Reykjavik has  _ something _ going on with a local taxi company, and Aziraphale is on the edge of his seat because he knows the next pay period will give him additional details.

But if you’re given a mission, you do it.

Going from accountant to active agent is about as big of a difference as it gets. 

“You’ve shown previously that you’re capable of spontaneity and enjoy international travel, and this is your opportunity to experiment with both,” the agent from Upstairs says when he’s assigned. He wonders what the agent is talking about for a good two days, and then he remembers, ah, yes, he went to Brussels once.

Aziraphale went to Brussels when he was 18, and he went because of a boy. And that boy-

_ “Oh god,” _ Aziraphale panics, and heads for the first phone he knows about. And he’s held on to his old wallet through the outfits and uniforms, but Aziraphale forgot about the secret little pocket he cut into it over half a decade ago. He grabs the card, and Crowley’s picture is there too, 17 and ridiculous. Aziraphale pauses just long enough to slip the picture back into place, and then dials the number on the back of his (expired) angelic miracle fund card.

The voice on the other end responds instantly with, “How can I help you?”

“Is he okay?” Aziraphale asks. The concierge doesn’t reply quickly like Aziraphale is used to with the very few calls he’d previously made, and he’s starting to dread the worst. “Is Crowley okay?”

“I’m going to need proof of identity before assisting you, sir,” the concierge says, and their voice is a bit unsteady. “There are security questions-”

“Fine, but please hurry,” Aziraphale says, because it is very rare for anyone to be on the phone. Ever. He doesn’t want to raise suspicion, particularly suspicion about this Crowley character he’s talking about. Upstairs would not take kindly to finding out he knows a...well, whatever Crowley is. “Just list them and I’ll answer them at the same time.”

“Ah, let me - three questions, sir. First, the worst name in the world. Second, the top part of your graduation present. Third, your first text,” the concierge says, and then clears their throat. “If you need-”

“Adam, chocolate, run,” Aziraphale answers effortlessly, because he  _ remembers, _ god, what has he been doing? What has he let people make him do? Why -

_ Because Mother said.  _ And Mother told him to _ ‘make your friend leave you alone.’ _

Any thoughts of leaving or even contacting Crowley vanish immediately.

“How can I help you, Aziraphale?” the concierge asks, absolutely  _ delighted. _ “Your current angelic miracle fund balance is $5,030,4-”

“Please just tell me he’s okay,” Aziraphale whispers. And Mother never forbade this, so he’s fine. He’s perfectly fine. But the phone is in a break room, and three other agents are filing in, chatting amiably, and very clearly noticing Aziraphale on the phone.

“The other account holder seems to be fine, he calls for check-ups monthly,” the concierge says.

Aziraphale frowns. “Check-ups?” That doesn’t sound good.

“To see if you’ve called,” the concierge says. “There’s a rendezvous point that’s been in place for years, I can contact him-”

“Don’t. Please don’t, he can’t look for me and I can’t leave,” Aziraphale says. Two of the agents are directly looking at him, and speaking to each other in quiet voices.

After the briefest of pauses, the concierge very carefully asks, “Do you need assistance?”

“No, I’m fine. There’s just a lot of obligations, things I need to take care of, and Mother wants me here,” Aziraphale says.

The third agent looks at him on the phone, and starts walking over, and asks with innocent curiosity, “Aziraphale? Who are you calling?”

He hangs up.

(And right after he hangs up, the concierge calls Crowley and leaves an urgent message that Aziraphale is alive and contacted the bank, specifically to ask about Crowley. Unfortunately, the concierge calls a number that goes to a phone which is newly destroyed, pieces strewn across a parking lot, just intact enough for it to ring and take the message before a car drives over it at highly inadvisable speeds, smashing apart any chance of Crowley immediately getting the message.)

“Just keeping in touch with-”  _ a friend _ would be an immediate red flag, because Aziraphale Has No Friends continues even here, so he tries “-my family.” Except he’s known to be a  _ legacy _ agent, so Aziraphale makes himself look sad and decides to lean hard on that fact. “I know they’re not my...my  _ real _ family, they’re gone. And they’re never coming back. I’ll never see them, ever again.”

The other agent looks justifiably uncomfortable, and backs away with a nod, and a numb sort of smile. “Well, you do whatever you feel like doing, just don’t see many people making calls is all.”

“A lot of us don’t have families to call anymore,” Aziraphale says, and bows his head, makes his shoulders droop down.

“Sorry for your loss, let’s go, break’s over,” the agent says cheerily, and all three of them trample across the white linoleum to get away from Aziraphale’s grief.

With  _ that _ problem taken care of, Aziraphale sits down at one of the nice-looking but very plastic tables, and stares at the phone while he thinks. He can’t leave the organization, since even considering the idea has him immediately shuddering at the idea and feeling a little sick. No. But there had to be  _ some _ way to - god, there are things more important than Crowley but it’s the easiest goal to grab onto.

If the  _ active agent _ mission ends up being something like the last one, stationed in a single place, well. No harm in calling. No harm in visiting a bit, and then see if Crowley is okay, check to make sure nothing sinister is hurting him and he needs some righteous assistance from the organization. If  _ Aziraphale _ finds  _ him, _ maybe...maybe that’d be okay.

That’s not what happens.

Instead of an opportunity, it’s a living nightmare.

Being an active agent is nothing like being a field agent. An active agent is  _ active, _ and Aziraphale forgets to call because there’s no time to call. Even as a trainee, Aziraphale is on and off planes for courier runs, for meetings he doesn’t take part in but guards the entrance, for missions where Aziraphale desperately tries to tell himself he can’t hear gunfire inside, for funeral rites performed for an agent not lucky enough to have an apprentice by their side. And then they fly somewhere and do it all over again.

Aziraphale wants to stop. He feels like he’s breaking somehow, but every time he falters, the other active agents remind him of what Mother said: this work is where he belongs. It’s what Aziraphale was born for. All Aziraphale should think and be and do is  _ his job. _ The more gentle active agents tell him to live in the moment, forget everything else, it’s easier if every mission is the only mission, every time. And god, how he tries.

The hope that he’ll see Crowley has him  _ desperate _ to get out, and he can’t. He can’t get out. This is where he belongs and the daily demands make him nearly hyperventilate every time he hopes, and  _ this is what he was born for _ and he can’t get out so he has to rip out the hope before he breaks completely. Live in the moment. Forget there was ever any other moment. Forget there’s something he  _ wants _ because this is his life and if there is nothing good there’s nothing to miss.

Aziraphale is soft and quiet and loves the things he loves, and he locks it. He hides it. He shoves it down so deep that the only thing left is the capacity to do  _ what he was born for _ because there is no getting out.

They work him to the bone for 4 months, and then he gets a one week vacation, which Aziraphale spends almost the entirety of just sleeping. He stays in the hotel room he was last assigned and orders room service, watches daytime TV, and naps and sleeps and takes baths and spends the entire time trying to be quiet and slow and find some way to stop being tired, all the time. It’s an incessant state that  _ aches _ .

He’s an active agent for another 3 months, turns 25, and then he’s sent back to his desk job. The first few weeks are spent in a daze, trying to adjust from being put in a dove gray suit and stationed near a door with the command  _ keep outside out, keep inside in, _ and a weapon that Aziraphale would desperately try to pretend didn’t exist even as his body immediately took it and he would do his job because it’s what he was born for and it’s where he belongs and now, he belongs here. Here, at his desk. Here, it’s numbers again. Soothing, straightforward numbers, and Aziraphale works. He does his job. He works, and as he works, he starts to rediscover the secrets in the numbers, the stories within them.

He gets a hobby, too, just to keep his mind as active as possible, and starts learning magic tricks. There’s a book on it in the Upstairs library. He does his job and he does this. He shows people what he’s learning. It’s tricks. It’s lies. All of his coworkers are extremely impressed, and it’s a relief to see their delight, and it is something to focus on and practice and work with so he doesn’t think about anything but numbers and slight of hand and how very much he wants to  _ not _ think about being an active agent.

Again, the desk job doesn’t last. Aziraphale is sent off as a trainee field agent, in a significantly busier and more important city than his last posting. This time it’s in America. It’s an actual learning experience too, posing as nephew to his Fake Aunt.

Fake Aunt looks like a 1930s movie star and goes to parties and laughs and jokes and dances and listens to people very intently while she does it. Fake Aunt is a hair stylist, and the best gossip in ten miles. Fake Aunt has at least 3 boyfriends and girlfriends who all know each other and she adores each of them. Fake Aunt is a creature of boundless energy, and Aziraphale, as Fake Nephew, gets exhausted just listening to her talk about her day. He’s always tired. Fake Aunt can tell, which is good, considering her whole mission is reading people and paying attention.

She sits him down at the kitchen table in her townhouse, and smiles, and says, “My technique isn’t for everyone, and that’s okay. But it is a  _ useful _ one, and effective, so I’d still like it if you tried, even if it’s just once or twice a week. Is that a deal you can agree to?”

He agrees because there’s not much choice otherwise, and he can spend the rest of his time just...existing. Quietly. Every day of freely existing helps him start actually living again. He starts to read, and it’s. It’s pleasant. He’s not sure what books are appropriate but Fake Aunt has some in her apartment so Aziraphale reads through those, slow and steady.

At the agreed-upon parties, Aziraphale quickly becomes known as Fake Aunt’s Introvert Nephew She’s Affectionately Trying To Corrupt. It doesn’t take too long for Aziraphale to learn the art of embarrassing himself just to get out of places he very much wants to leave. Fake Aunt’s Nephew is also now Fake Aunt’s Horribly Clumsy And Possibly An Idiot Nephew.

If he spills a drink all over himself he’s able to excuse himself with a mortified expression and run out. If he smacks his head on a low-hanging light, he can stay in the corner putting ice on it and then leave a few minutes later. If he does a magic trick  _ exceptionally _ poorly and people laugh at him, well, he can leave then too.

“I know what you’re doing,” Fake Aunt tells him the morning after that particular episode. The sunrise is a cheery pink blooming across the sky behind her, because Aziraphale couldn’t sleep and Fake Aunt woke up for him. She smiles, and makes him hot chocolate as she speaks. “It’s kind of genius, really, and you’re welcome to keep it up, but I have a party coming up that’s important. I’d like you to be there and help me with a small task. Can you keep someone distracted for the evening?”

Aziraphale is not an idiot, no matter what his reputation would lead someone to think. “Are you asking me to sleep with someone?” he asks, a little bit horrified.

Fake Aunt laughs. Aziraphale already knows she has no problem with that course of action herself, but it’s honest and not the least bit pressuring when she says, “You don’t have to use sex to distract someone. Ambush him in a corner and quiz him on nations of the world all night if you want. You’re smart, I know you’ll figure something out. Just keep him away from me and what I’ll be doing.”

He’s never met someone as socially competent as Fake Aunt. She gives him the hot chocolate, and spends the morning talking to Aziraphale about their neighbor’s recent movements. He listens, and nods along, and when he speaks too, commenting on his own observations, she gives him a smile. They have a job to do, and Aziraphale is helping her. It’s a quiet job that he only really has to put effort into once a week.

Aziraphale isn’t as tired anymore.

So no, he doesn’t  _ have _ to seduce the guy, but they both know it’d certainly be the easiest way to achieve his goals. And at least it’s not a woman. Fake Aunt gives him a basic profile of Target, and the reason seducing the man would be easiest is because it’s  _ his party, _ which makes it...more difficult. To be fair, the guy is hosting a birthday party for his sister, so he’s not the guest of honor, but being host will make things tricky.

“I won’t need the whole time, I’ll let you know when things start and end,” Fake Aunt tells him. And Aziraphale nods, and tries to think up a few plans, and contingency plans, and they set up some codes and signals. Most of them are more or less ways for Aziraphale to shout  _ help _ without actually shouting help.

The party is on a bright sunshiny day, and Aziraphale doesn’t expect the birthday girl to be turning 9. For a moment, Aziraphale panics and glares at Fake Aunt because  _ how old is the target, then? _ Fake Aunt, who is very good at reading people, laughs, and leans in to whisper, “Calm down, he’s 24. The sister’s from his father’s second marriage.”

And Aziraphale has never had to do this before. He’s been friendly, he’s done favors for people, he’s done a lot of things but - and he doesn’t  _ have to _ do it. He doesn’t. Fake Aunt has a perfectly good point, Aziraphale could be one of those horrible people who won’t let their conversation partner leave because they won’t stop talking, ambush his target near the punch bowl and irritate him until even host politeness can’t save Aziraphale. And god, Fake Nephew’s reputation would be ruined forever but it’d also seem like an inevitable disappointment in his social life, wouldn’t it. Fake Aunt wouldn’t be very happy.

He’s so busy fighting off panic that he barely notices getting indulgently towed along by Fake Aunt through the crowd to Target, who is wearing black pants and a patterned jacket and has brown hair and isn’t anywhere near 14, thank god.

“I’d like you to meet my nephew,” Fake Aunt says, and Target turns.

Here, we reach another branching point.

Many versions of Aziraphale register nothing unusual and simply shake Target’s hand and start a conversation, shaking slightly from anxiety. A few others have an instantaneous full and complete flash of memory, drop everything, and run for the nearest phone. Some have a subtle trickle of unusual yet pleasant attraction. Some focus on how dreadfully ugly Target’s jacket is. And some, like ours, have a very different reaction. A very _powerful_ reaction.

Aziraphale’s brain registers absolutely nothing about Target beyond the sunglasses that are 5 years out of fashion and make him  _ burn _ , and his brain is too focused on his mission to process everything beyond what’s useful and that leaves Aziraphale so wholly and completely consumed by a feeling of  _ yearning, oh god, wanting something so badly _ that he looks Target over and  _ orders him, _ “Take the jacket off.”

A heartbeat, two, and then Target damn near rips his way out of the jacket. It’s an improvement. Not completely better, his shirt is gray, but it’s good enough. Aziraphale barely knows what’s happening, but he feels his heart and his body  _ approve. _ It’s closer, without the jacket. Colorful wasn’t right. He doesn’t even know what would be  _ right  _ but he knows that jacket was wrong.

Target starts taking the sunglasses off, and Aziraphale grabs his hand to stop him. “Those stay on.”

“Okay,” Target breathe-squeaks out, completely dazed, and everyone around them looks a bit uncomfortable but Target doesn’t notice and Aziraphale doesn’t care. There’s absolutely no question of what’s going on here when Target blurts, “I own a bed.”

“Show me,” Aziraphale says because maybe that’s it, maybe that’s the  _ want, _ and Target walks them into the house so fast it’s almost jogging, and Aziraphale has to tell him to slow down. They go up a floor and then into a very big bedroom that he absently hopes isn’t the room Fake Aunt needs to get into because it’s going to be occupied for a long, long time.

He knows there’s something strange going on. When he kisses Target and it feels like desperate hunger but also complete  _ emptiness, _ Aziraphale can’t stop, it feels like stopping would kill him. His brain keeps pointing to things and saying  _ that’s not right _ . He doesn’t know what would be. He strips a frantic moaning  _ (not the right voice) _ Target down to nothing but socks and sunglasses and it’s not right but it’s as close as he can get.

Every kiss is more and more unfulfilling, and it means Aziraphale gets more and more desperate, kisses harder, swallows deeper. He takes Target apart piece by piece, hoping it’ll show Aziraphale what he’s supposed to actually be tasting. It doesn’t.

Taller. Different hair.  _ Moving _ , the way he moves is wrong, when he thrusts inside of Target it’s  _ wrong _ but it’s the best he can get, the closest he can find, and it’s  _ good _ but Aziraphale grows more and more frustrated. Target’s come twice through all of this, maybe three times, Aziraphale hasn’t particularly noticed, but now there’s a hand on his face and Target looks worried, tries to ask, “You,  _ oh _ , are you a-a-”

_ Angel. _

Aziraphale comes and he feels like he’s going to pass out and it hurts, it hurts his  _ heart, _ it’s not right at all, and he’s crying. He drops his head onto Target’s chest and  _ sobs, _ and Target is boneless and exhausted but still manages to get Aziraphale at least a little cleaned up and then into bed, under the sheets, with Target curled around him. Without the sunglasses, there’s nothing right. Even  _ with _ the sunglasses, it wasn’t right.

It’s night now. The party started at 3pm. But he’s still crying, heart somewhere between grief and yearning, and Target is holding him, whispering,  _ it’s okay, it’s okay. _

Everything is wrong.

Everything is exhausting, and wrong.

And when Aziraphale finally falls asleep, his brain works very hard to remember things he’d forcibly forgotten for the sake of daily survival. He ends up with the weird image of a boy in sunglasses holding empty ice buckets in front of a burning apartment building, looking very nervous, saying in the same  _ angel _ voice Aziraphale heard before, “I don’t work here. Is it nice?”

Aziraphale frowns. “No, it’s not nice, it’s  _ on fire _ .”

But the boy tosses the buckets into the fire, and then the boy is older and  _ there’s the sunglasses _ , he’s wearing the same exact pair of sunglasses and an almost completely black outfit and suddenly Aziraphale is sitting behind the counter at the Garden of Eden with hot sunglasses guy sauntering over, away from the fire, before leaning on the front of the counter with a smile. “Hello, angel, my name is Crowley. Are you busy tonight?”

“I can’t go with you, I have to be here. It’s my job,” Aziraphale finds himself saying. The honesty hurts. “Mother told me to do this. It’s what I was born for.”

Crowley (god, how could he forget  _ Crowley) _ doesn’t stop smiling. He shrugs and says, “But it’s only me. If I’m as bad as you think I am, and you’re with me, you’d still be doing your job. Watching evil and so on.”

“Evil?” Aziraphale does not like this news. He liked it much more when Crowley was just really hot and important to him. He remains those things, but also responds with a shrug that’s not exactly reassuring. “You’re  _ evil?” _

“Well, I mean.  _ Technically  _ you only know about the theoretical cocaine car thing and that I’ve known how to do some extremely shady things since I was at least 17 and you saw me run away from people chasing me in Brussels,” Crowley says, and pauses. “And I named my bank account  _ demonic miracle fund _ . That was probably a bad sign to give, now that I think about it.”

“That’s a  _ very _ bad sign,” Aziraphale agrees.

“At least burning your apartment down was a mistake,” Crowley says cheerily. “That wasn’t evil, that was just me being stupid.”

Aziraphale frowns. “That’s still not a good thing.”

“Well, I’d like to highlight that incident since accidental arson is probably the best thing on the list,” Crowley says. Fair enough, Aziraphale supposes. “You also know I changed my name - won’t tell you the old one, either - and made myself older on fake documents, and I have multiple passports and keep adding gobs and gobs of money to our account and you have  _ no _ idea where it comes from-”

“Oh god, no wonder I don’t talk to you,” Aziraphale says, and he’s close to covering his ears just to keep from knowing  _ even more _ because every bit of his training over the past half decade is screaming  _ report him report him report him. _ “Why would I  _ ever _ talk to you?”

It’s almost like Crowley is waiting for the question. Or maybe the dream is. But whatever it is, Aziraphale is suddenly sitting next to Crowley on a bench, or a couch, or two chairs pulled close together, watching...something. That’s not the important part. The important part is Crowley is sitting in a slouchy sprawling way next to Aziraphale, who comes in mid-conversation as Crowley says, “-all because of that walrus commercial,  _ every time _ that thing comes on. Every single time.”

“Which walrus commercial?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley turns, looking at him like he’s crazy. “ _ Which one? _ How many walrus commercials have you seen recently?”

Aziraphale somehow knows it’s okay to answer. He thinks for a moment, and then starts going down the list. “Let’s see, there’s the lifeboat one, the casino one, the Christmas one-”

“Where he’s got the little hat?”

“Exactly, and there’s the lights, and - oh, and there’s the seal commercial!”

Crowley shakes his head. “No, seals don’t count.”

“Since when? Why don’t seals count?” Aziraphale asks.

“Because there’s - there’s different, you know, advertisement reasons for them,” Crowley says, waving a hand like he can physically brush off the entire concept of seals.  _ “Connotations, _ all that subtext you like.”

“Well if you want to get into subtext, otters are  _ far _ worse than walruses.  _ And _ seals,” Aziraphale says. Crowley raises an eyebrow, arms crossed, unimpressed, but waits to hear Aziraphale’s point.

And...and Aziraphale realizes. It’s such a small thing, but it’s not. 

It’s  _ not. _

Crowley is waiting to hear Aziraphale’s point. He’s not bothered by the waiting, not barking for Aziraphale to get on with it. He’s not expecting Aziraphale to  _ report _ more than speak. He’s attentive. He's engaged. He wants to hear what Aziraphale has to say, and he has no problem waiting for it.

As the silence continues, Crowley frowns, and now Aziraphale knows they’re somewhere private, so private that Crowley feels safe enough to take of the sunglasses, trusts him enough to show the scars and unnatural gold of his eyes and the unguarded caring  _ concern _ in them. The concern is rooted in affection more obvious and unshakeable than any mountain. He leans towards Aziraphale, and puts a hand on his cheek as he asks, “Something wrong, angel?”

Aziraphale wakes up.

He’s tangled up with Target, the sun just now beginning to rise. Target is somehow awake, looking at Aziraphale like he’s the most wonderful thing to ever exist. “Good morning,” Target says, and it is the sappiest, lovingest thing Aziraphale has  _ ever _ heard. Worse than people with pets they spoil rotten. “I was thinking we could-”

“I have a boyfriend and this was a mistake,” Aziraphale blurts, and while Target goes mute in horror, Aziraphale puts on his pants, grabs everything else, and leaves before Target can try to say another word.

Probably not the best way to break up with someone, no, but it’s certainly the easiest. And it feels the most honest, too.


	6. A Burning Passion for Groceries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [yet another song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wEXzcMt4MW0)  
> 
> 
> (guess who is no longer unemployed [hint: it's me])

When Aziraphale gets back ‘home’, Fake Aunt nearly body checks him in excitement. She grabs him to rub her fist into the top of his head and say, “If I’d known you can do _that_ I would’ve-”

“Please don’t,” Aziraphale manages to say, and extricates himself as quickly as possible. He’s blushing. “That was...that was a one-time thing, I was, well, I’d been thinking about approaches and. That’s, uh. What happened.”

But Fake Aunt looks considering. Aziraphale is very clearly in wrinkled Walk of Shame clothing and hasn’t even gotten a shower yet. “Do you always control people like that?”

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale says very firmly, and a bit horrified. “It really was a one-time thing, I’m not - usually it’s much more, ah. Democratic.” The memories are all a bit fuzzy, but he knows he’s slept with people before and it wasn’t Crowley and it _certainly_ wasn’t like last night.

Fake Aunt laughs. “So what, you vote on what to do next?” Aziraphale can only grimace, helpless, and Fake Aunt laughs again for a bit before she continues. “Alright, but point is, that’s useful. You managed to get a doting brother to drop everything for you, and you did it in about 10 seconds. That’s a valuable tool you should consider using.”

“I’d rather not,” Aziraphale says. Fake Aunt seems disappointed, but accepts it.

Aziraphale goes and cleans up, feeling very weird, and tries to remember everything. He can remember the last time he remembered, where it felt more like he needed a reminder than anything else. This time, it’s as if his brain doesn’t _want_ him to remember, like a dragon hoarding treasure. Even remembering his dream feels a bit like pulling teeth, but he clings to every second of it. It felt true, more memory than fantasy, but that’s no guarantee of anything.

He heads out into the city and to an office building a few blocks away. If you look like you’re dressed appropriately and walk like you know where you’re going, people ignore you, so Aziraphale ensures he meets both those criteria and picks a random floor of the building, finds an unlocked door and opens it, and then finds an empty cubicle with a phone, and calls the bank concierge line written on the back of his card.

“How can I help you?” the voice asks.

Aziraphale clears his throat, and says, “Yes, hello, I’m...well, I’m hoping I can get some help. The problem is you’d need to not tell Crowley, you _absolutely_ can’t tell him and I’m not sure you’re allowed to not tell him things-”

“Sir, I need to ask a few security questions before proceeding,” the concierge says, but they sound _very_ excited. “Are you ready?”

But oh no. Oh no, no no no, he doesn’t remember enough. Probably. But it’s his money too, he remembers at least that. He knows why he has the card, remembers what it means, remembers what the concierge line is, but the details are still hazy and _stubborn_. “I’m not sure I’ll answer them correctly,” Aziraphale says, frustrated, and ashamed. “But ask your questions and I’ll do my best. I really am me, just with very blurry memories, so hopefully that’ll be enough.”

“We have a few questions available, sir, you only need to get three correct,” the concierge says. Aziraphale is very sure they know it’s really him, but there’s protocol and they have to follow it. “First question, what did he bring to your college apartment, other than luggage?”

Aziraphale thinks _hard_ , and he gets a vague image of a car, it’s parked and he’s tired and anxious and someone (Crowley) is getting out, but that’s as much as he gets. There’s flashes of other things. He remembers glass pulled from where no glass should be, glinting with fluorescent light, long fingers wrapped around the surface and water sloshing into it and thinking it’s entirely unnecessary but still grateful, and Aziraphale winces and tries, “A glass? Or - no, a vase. There was...I think there was a vase.”

There’s a pause, and the concierge says very gently, “That’s partially correct, can you...do you remember what was _in_ the vase?”

“Water,” Aziraphale says, but the concierge makes an encouraging noise, and Aziraphale is smart so _what goes in a vase_ and Aziraphale nearly drops the phone when he realizes. He picks it back up and says, “He gave me _flowers?_ What else did he - gracious sakes, were they red roses, or was it a friendly yellow, or pink, or-”

“I can’t give you that information. It just says flowers,” the concierge says, but they sound so very relieved. “Next question…” There’s a pause, and a _hmm_ as they presumably choose one. “Do you remember his eye color?”

“Gold,” Aziraphale says, effortless. It’s one of the _very_ few clear memories he has.

The concierge hesitates for a moment. “I have yellow written down.”

“I’m assuming Crowley gave you the answers?” Aziraphale says dryly. The concierge makes an affirming noise. “Well of course _he’d_ call them yellow, but they’re actually a very pretty gold color, far too warm and rich to just be called _yellow_. If he has to answer these too, make sure you correct that one.”

Aziraphale isn’t exactly clear on events between them, but there is a very definite concept of _Crowley,_ all vague but firm impressions and an understanding of what Aziraphale is missing. Vaguely. He remembers gold eyes with scars behind sunglasses, dark clothes on a long thin body that _saunters_ everywhere, and it truly is _everywhere,_ Aziraphale very clearly recalls that never going away. He remembers a long gap in visits but still a sense of eager comfort that would bloom the second they were in contact.

But that’s most of what he remembers. He has impressions. He has emotions. He has the twist of Crowley’s lips and the feeling of what they did, but that’s all.

“Yes sir,” the concierge says, clearly amused. “Third question, name a restaurant you’ve eaten in together.” They pause. “You only have to give one of the names on the list.”

And Aziraphale tries. He _tries_ , he thinks as hard as he can. He comes up with the clink of champagne flutes while incomprehensible words fly around them, the plastic squeak of a diner booth’s bench, the clear sweet jingle of a bell above the door in a place that smells like truly spectacular chocolate, but no names. No words come back to him.

“Do you have an answer?” the concierge prompts.

“I don’t,” Aziraphale says, and squeezes his eyes shut. “I can’t remember. Please try another question.”

They do. Aziraphale can’t answer that one either. There’s another failed question, and _another_ failed question, and Aziraphale puts his head down on the unoccupied desk and says, “I don’t - it’s me, but I don’t remember, I’m sorry.”

And the concierge lets out a heavy breath, and says very carefully, “I have one last question that I was warned to be careful with, it might make you-”

“Mother,” Aziraphale says.

Silence.

“That’s correct,” the concierge finally says. “How can I help you?”

“I need to know where Crowley is, but I need you to not tell him I know,” Aziraphale says. “Or tell me somewhere he is _often_. Somewhere someone could just happen to run into him.”

“Are you hoping to make a surprise visit?” the concierge asks, clearly _delighted_ by the idea.

“No, no, it’s - I can’t get out, Mother won’t let me and probably never will, this is what I was born for. But he can’t look for me, he has to leave me alone. If he comes looking, I _have to_ make him leave me alone. But if there was a chance meeting, a _real_ chance meeting, I wouldn’t be breaking rules, understand? Mother won’t be upset, I’ll still be following her will in every way, but for that criteria to be met, the closest I can get to arranging this is we happen to be in the same general area,” Aziraphale says, and he sounds unhinged, he _knows_ he does, but he can’t seem to stop. “So Crowley can’t be looking for me, and I can’t go looking for him, but I can try to be...convenient? Close? Change the odds a bit?”

There’s a pause, but then the concierge says, “I think I understand, yes. If it’s a deliberate meeting, it’s not allowed, and you can’t do it. So you’re trying to work through a loophole.”

“ _Yes_ , yes, precisely,” Aziraphale says. “And that’s why I would like to know if there’s anywhere with a particularly pleasant population somewhere in the world. _Anywhere_ in the world. I’m - it doesn’t matter where. It really doesn’t.”

“Well, I know someone who spends a lot of time in London,” the concierge says, and Aziraphale lets out a long relieved breath. “Most of his time, for the past two or three years. Should I tell you what area?”

“No, not yet, I’ll - well, I’ll hopefully call soon to ask about good neighborhoods. Maybe even good apartment complexes,” Aziraphale says, and he laughs, just a little bit.

“Well, thankfully you have plenty of savings. I know of one in particular that you might be interested in but it is _very_ pricey.”

“Of course it is,” Aziraphale mutters, because there’s also _that_ impression of Crowley. He feels hopeful for the first time in so long. “I’m assuming the place is very expensive and dark and fashionable, so please be on the lookout for something actually comfortable in the area? Something...something warm and homey, with sunlight.”

It takes a moment, but the concierge says, “Let me at least tell him you called. Not what it’s about, not a word about our actual discussion. I’m making a note for every other concierge to keep _everything_ about this private, but please just let me tell him you called.”

There is something a bit unfair that Aziraphale got to call and ask if Crowley is okay but Crowley doesn’t get the same luxury. So Aziraphale agrees. Mostly. “You can tell him I called, you can tell him about the security questions, and you can tell him I’ve had - well. I’m being...flexibly obedient. And if he tries to help it’ll all go down the toilet so tell him to keep his nose out of my business.”

“Thank you,” the concierge says. Aziraphale hangs up, and nobody in the random office building bothers him in the slightest as he leaves.

(This particular concierge would quickly become Aziraphale’s Concierge. About 5 minutes after Aziraphale hung up, he sends an all-hands email saying that he doesn’t care what shift it is or what else is going on, if Aziraphale calls and has an issue, _he_ wants to do it. Considering someone successfully claimed Crowley about 6 years ago after what was apparently a _very_ dramatic call, he doesn’t worry too much about how it’ll go over.

(Aziraphale’s concierge waits a couple hours before he calls Crowley, mostly for his own sake. He considered asking Crowley’s concierge to make the call, but there’s a perspective she wouldn’t be able to provide. She wasn’t on the call. She didn’t hear how fiercely Aziraphale was trying to remember, how badly he wanted to know. How lost he is. How hard he’s working to find his way back.

(It’s probably 11am in London, meaning Crowley is probably busy, but getting a call from the concierge line is rare enough that Crowley answers rather quickly. “Hello?”

(“This is -” _screw it_ “- this is Aziraphale’s concierge, calling to inform you he contacted us-”

(“Is he okay? Where is he?” Crowley asks, absolutely _desperate_. “I’ll go, wherever he is. Doesn’t matter.”

(“I was given instructions regarding contacting you,” Aziraphale’s concierge says. “This is the exact message, give or take a few stumblings. That message is, ‘you can tell him I called, you can tell him about the security questions, and you can tell him I’m being flexibly obedient. And if he tries to help it’ll all go down the toilet so tell him to keep his nose out of my business.’

(There’s a long pause, and then Crowley is back on the line, asking, “What’s noteworthy about the security questions?”

(Aziraphale’s concierge isn’t quite sure how to respond, but he settles on a simple summary. “He had trouble answering most of them. It seems like he’s having a hard time remembering things, although some specific details seem to stick out. He remembered a vase but not the flowers in it, he could describe the seating arrangement of a restaurant but not the name or what it served, that sort of thing. He’s...he’s fighting for it. He’s fighting hard.”

(Crowley’s end of the call is so completely silent that Crowley must have muted himself.

(So, he keeps going. And for a moment he wonders if he really _should_ contact Crowley’s Concierge, because he doesn’t know if it’s kind or cruel when he reports what questions Aziraphale got right and what he got wrong, all of which has dead silence on the other end of the line.

(He continues. He gives every bit of information he feels is appropriate, but eventually, he runs out and has to say, “I can’t tell you much of anything else. It must be hard to be explicitly told to keep out of it, but it’s for good reasons. It’s quite likely things would go wrong if you try to help.”

(Crowley’s side of the call clicks off of mute and he asks, “Is there _anything_ I can do? Absolutely anything? You don’t even have to explain it.”

(And oh, there’s an idea. He could put Crowley somewhere convenient. What would be - a park? No, they could walk past each other, and it might be too cold for walks if Aziraphale isn’t in London until winter. A laundromat? No, they’ll both have their own laundry at home, they deserve that luxury. Aziraphale’s concierge makes a considering noise, and starts looking at maps of local places around Crowley.

(On the other end, Crowley sighs in a painfully exhausted way, and says, “Well. Thank you for-”

(“Wait a second, I’m trying to figure something out,” Aziraphale’s concierge says, which is nowhere near as polite as he should be, but it’s desperate times. It doesn’t have to be cute, it just has to be a place where they’d _see each other_ , just a normal place where people go - where people _have to_ go. “Okay, I’m going to give you an address and that’s where you need to buy groceries from now on.” He can’t go more specific than that. Even _this_ might be pushing it.

(There is a very understandably confused response of “...why?”

(“Great prices, we have an agreement with the manager, other stores have health code violations, it’s just a really good place to buy groceries. It, uh.” Probably too much, but he does it anyway. “It’s a _great_ store and it might make you happy to be there someday.”

(“I usually have someone buy groceries for me,” Crowley says.

(“Stop doing that and go to the store yourself.”

( _Oh god, why did he talk to Crowley like that, he’s going to get fired_. But Crowley, sounding amused, says, “Really don’t know why I’m surprised by this bizarrely forceful request, considering you’re _Aziraphale’s_ concierge.”

(“No, no no no, it’s nothing to do with him! I just...I just have a thing about groceries, you know, everyone has a thing they’re passionate about.”

(“You have a burning passion for groceries?” Crowley asks, now sounding _extremely_ amused.

(“Please just consider doing that, do you have any questions about the call?”

(Crowley clears his throat. “Did he ask about me?”

(Aziraphale’s concierge isn’t sure how to answer that, but he knows if he’s quiet for _any_ length of time it won’t go over well, so he says, “Yes. I can’t tell you more than that.”

(“Alright, thank you,” Crowley says brusquely, and hangs up.

(It leaves Aziraphale’s concierge staring at the phone for a long moment, wondering about quite a few things. But that’s not his job. His job is to make things happen. So, he focuses on his computer and starts house hunting in a very specific area of London.

(Within the week, he has contractors destroying the expensive modernist interior of a conveniently located building to instead follow a design based on the criteria of ‘the warmest coziest happiest building possible, in the most bookish way possible.’ Within 3 months, the Angelic Miracle Fund is paying for a lovely sunny apartment just a couple blocks from Crowley’s building, and Aziraphale’s concierge has some very confused but amiable interior decorators on call for the moment Aziraphale says he’s ready for it.)

If Aziraphale’s plan is going to work, he’s going to need to do an awful lot of research. Thankfully, Aziraphale actually likes research. He likes the books, and he likes hunting down news all the way from London, likes piecing together as reasonable a conspiracy as possible. It has to be one that only Aziraphale himself could see, and therefore only Aziraphale can be sent to investigate.

His self-appointed mission would go much easier if Fake Aunt wasn’t holding him to the one party a week plan, and if Target wasn’t almost inevitably at these parties. If Aziraphale goes to one of Fake Aunt’s parties and Target isn’t there, someone contacts Target and he arrives within 30 minutes.

The first two times, Target shows up looking nice and desperate and Aziraphale sneaks out before Target can find him, because Aziraphale is literally trained to do that. The third time, he shows up in the sunglasses, and it’s 9pm, and that is just... _argh_. That can’t go unanswered. So Aziraphale finally has to confront him.

When Aziraphale starts walking towards him, and Target spots him, Target has to physically grab onto the railing to steady himself. The party is on top of a big tall building and Aziraphale thinks it’s always a terrible idea to have people consuming copious amounts of alcohol on top of a high-rise, but who is he to judge? Point is, Target looks like he’d be very easy to shove over the edge.

“Hi,” Target says, and waves, and gives him a big bright smile that quickly fades when he sees Aziraphale is most definitely not smiling back. “Look, I’ll get straight to the point, I’m sorry about whatever I-”

“That was a mistake, and I should be the one apologizing,” Aziraphale says, and he keeps in mind that the best lies are as close to the truth as possible. “I’m in a long-distance relationship and I miss him very much and you have the same sunglasses and you look, um. You look alike in some ways.” They really don’t, but it’s the easiest explanation. It is very easy to start blushing for the next bit. “And I, um. I’d been a bit frustrated all day. Carnally. All _month,_ really, and it all ballooned and there you were, and next thing you know, things happened.”

Target frowns, and looks around, lowering his voice and sounding very concerned. “You _cried._ Those weren’t happy tears. That’s why I’ve been trying to find you. Does he...is he treating you okay?”

“Are you asking if my boyfriend beats me?” Aziraphale asks, and can’t help the quirk to his lips. He can’t remember everything, but of the flashes of memories, Crowley may be shady but he also shrieked and jumped out of a window when faced with...some sort of conflict. That’s foggy, but the shrieking attempt at escape is a very vivid memory. Aziraphale doesn’t remember seeing him every truly _angry,_ but the bits of anger he remembers make him suspect Crowley is an angry crier.

“No, no, that’s not what I mean. Plus you’re clearly in charge in the relationship,” Target says, eyes going meaningfully wide as emphasis, oh dear. “I mean is he, you know. Good to you. If you’re that hard up, how long are you willing to wait? How long has it been since you saw each other? How often do you even talk?”

Target is going to push this, and Aziraphale’s Fake Nephew cover will go down the drain if he does what he wants and tells Target to _shove it_ and throw the sunglasses off the rooftop.

“What’s it going to take for you to leave me alone?” Aziraphale asks.

And oh, he knows it’s coming, hazy memories of someone both boring and negative saying something very similar, if not the exact same thing. Target squares his shoulders and says, “I want to meet him.”

Very unimpressed, Aziraphale says, “No.”

“Then let me talk to him,” Target says.

“No.”

Target throws his hands up in frustration. “Then show me a picture!”

Aziraphale nods, and reaches for his wallet, and then he pauses because he remembers that the picture he has is of a 17 year old. Even if he quickly explains the picture is from when Aziraphale was _also_ 17, there continues to be the problem of reputation, because Target will probably be upset and want to toss rumors around. So, he thinks for a moment, and then holds out a hand. “Give me your phone.”

“Why?” Target asks, very clearly suspicious.

“Because I can’t use mine for this,” Aziraphale says, and while Target is suspicious, he is also _curious,_ so Target hands his very nice fancy phone over. Fake Aunt does a good job of hanging out with rich people. He dials the concierge line’s number effortlessly. He has it memorized for his own safety, by now.

Aziraphale has called the concierge line a few times over the past month, mostly to arrange the quiet transfer of newspapers and magazines and books that are relevant to his goals. He’s not doing it often, but he’s been using the empty cubicle’s phone often enough that the receptionist waves at him when he comes in.

It’s a familiar voice on the other end that answers with a professional yet friendly, “How can I help you?”

He turns away from Target, takes a deep breath, and says, “I need his number.”

“Are you - sir. That’s very likely going to be counterproductive,” his usual concierge says. “I’m trying to focus on helping you achieve your main goal above all else, and I don’t think that would help. I’m sure there’s another way we can get what you’re looking for.”

Even if his concierge can’t see it, Aziraphale shakes his head, scowling at the floor. “No, you don’t - I need an updated picture of him, and I need it _now_. Considering it’s either I ask him for a selfie or you have someone bash his door down and take a picture of him screaming as he jumps out of bed, yes, this is the better option.”

His concierge takes a moment, but finally says with an abysmally heavy resignation, “I’ll transfer you. I won’t give you the number, but I’ll transfer you.”

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale says, because the concierge deserves that much.

And then the phone is ringing.

It rings once, and Aziraphale nearly hangs up. He hasn’t spoken to Crowley in 5 years, maybe 6, and even now, Aziraphale doesn’t remember everything, still only has the string of fragile moments his mind is willing to give. So can he even claim he’s _ever_ spoken to Crowley?

It rings again, and it’s very likely that his concierge was perfectly correct and this is going to be counterproductive. It might knock his progress back for _years_ , because if Aziraphale hears so much as a hint that Crowley is trying to find him, Aziraphale will immediately need to convince him not to. And at this point, Aziraphale will probably end up having to hurt him.

He answers. It’s a groggy yet alert, “Hello?”

Aziraphale can’t speak. He manages to make a blurb of noise, but it’s nothing. It’s nonsense. It’s, _god,_ it’s so nice to hear his voice, and Aziraphale was going to request the stupid picture and hang up but instead he whispers, “Please talk more.”

There’s a heavy thud, and Aziraphale is worried Crowley hung up on him until there’s a brushing static sort of noise, and then there’s a shaky, “Aziraphale? Is that you? Wh-”

“Don’t, _don’t,_ please don’t ask about me or say anything about you, I’m operating on loopholes, _please_ don’t,” Aziraphale says, harsh and desperate. “I’m asking for a picture, if you’d be so kind? Just a quick one, just - I don’t even care how you look, I only need to see you.”

“Alright, that’s fine, I’ll do that,” Crowley says, and he’s so _gentle,_ trying to calm Aziraphale down. There’s a deep breath on the other end. “I heard you’re having trouble remembering some things, so maybe this will help.”

And at this point, Aziraphale has dropped to sit on the floor, entire body leaning against the railing and keeping his eyes shut tight. He can’t leave, he can’t ask Crowley any questions about who he is or what he’s doing, he can’t give any information because Crowley _will_ try to find him, so he says, “I think I like opera. I’m pretty sure about that. We went to a party with an opera singer and it was beautiful. What do you think?”

“Well, I know you like theater, so I assume opera’s thrown in there too,” Crowley says. “You like nice things. You like good food most of all, too.”

“I remember somewhere with champagne, and they served food with abnormally large sprigs of rosemary on the plate,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley makes an agreeing noise. “That was our first dinner in Brussels, where the manager nearly kicked us out for dress code violation.”

“You bribed our way in,” Aziraphale remembers, and he laughs, the memory spiraling out into a picture of two gleeful idiot teenagers. “You bribed the _manager,_ too. God, the look on his face when you pulled all that money out.”

“Worth every penny, in my book,” Crowley says, and he’s so _fond._ His voice is so soft and affectionate that it hurts to hear, it _aches._ It’s quiet, for a moment, but it’s a warm silence, like watching snow fall when covered in blankets. Crowley breaks it only for the sake of practicality, and clears his throat. “Right. Picture. Can I ask what prompted the request?”

“Well, I can’t really show people one of a 17 year old anymore, that’s a bit...creepy,” Aziraphale says.

A pause, and then Crowley bursts out with, “Oh you _bastard,_ you did it _again,_ didn’t you! You’re using me as your fake boyfriend, _again._ How often do you do this?”

“I’ve done this before?” Aziraphale asks, legitimately surprised.

“You have _selective amnesia,_ and making me your fake boyfriend is _still_ the automatic reaction for breaking up with people?!”

“It’s the first thing I thought of! And it’s because he’s - it’s _complicated!_ There’s a reason I want _your_ picture,” Aziraphale says, and makes a frustrated noise because somehow he _knows_ Crowley won’t let it go. Better to get it over with. “It’s the sunglasses, okay?”

“What?”

Aziraphale winces, and changes the order of things just a little bit so he admits, a bit terse, “I remembered you because he wore sunglasses in bed.” It’s close enough. The truth would probably go over a bit differently.

“O-oh. I, hm,” Crowley says, and then there’s a jumble of abrupt noises that sound almost like the start of words. Aziraphale remembers a flash of Crowley wearing an ugly coat sitting on top of a car and the same sorts of noises breaking his heart. It lasts for a while, and Aziraphale tries to catalog the memory while he waits. All he gets in the end is a very quick, “Alright, fair enough, I’ll send it,” before Crowley hangs up.

And Aziraphale realizes he’s sitting on the floor with Target’s phone in hand, probably looking both lovestruck and queasy, and maybe also a bit ashamed. Target is standing just a few feet away, and when Aziraphale looks up, Fake Aunt is looking straight at him. Oh, she’s still laughing, still charming everyone in the room, but Aziraphale has the same training. She’s absolutely watching him, and knows _something_ is happening.

Target’s phone chimes, and there’s a shiny new multimedia file from a blocked number. Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and opens it.

It’s pretty impressive for a selfie, and it’s clear that Crowley was woken up for the call, since his now-longer hair could really use a good combing and he’s also wearing a very loose black t-shirt. He has sunglasses on, although it’s not the pair that recently got Aziraphale into trouble. They’re cutting-edge current fashion. But most important are these three facts: Crowley seems to just get hotter as time goes on, he has an indulgent half-smile expression that Aziraphale can very easily read as _you owe me but this is also funny_ , and he is also holding a piece of paper that has the words **HIS ACTUAL BOYFRIEND** written on it in thick black marker, with an arrow pointing up towards Crowley’s face.

Aziraphale _instantly_ emails it to his personal account, potentially catastrophic data tracking be damned. Hell or high water couldn’t stop him from saving this picture. _His actual boyfriend_ , god, he has that butterfly thing happening so he quickly stands up and hands Target his phone back, Crowley’s picture still open.

When Target looks at the picture, it doesn’t take long for Target to say, “Well, it makes more sense now. How often do you see him?”

“Not often enough,” Aziraphale says, and proceeds to switch the topic and have an actual conversation with Target, during which Aziraphale grabs four alcoholic beverages and pours three of them over the edge without Target noticing. He puts the glasses on the floor, trying to angle them somewhere that Fake Aunt could believe she missed while looking around. And then, with the fourth drink, he drinks it very, very messily.

Target clears his throat, and asks, “Are you okay?”

“I should go home,” Aziraphale says, and Target is clearly confused, but he helps Aziraphale get downstairs and into a taxi. Aziraphale has the taxi stop at a liquor store on the way back, where he buys a few fondly familiar tiny bottles of alcohol, which he then chugs as quickly as possible in the back of the taxi so he’ll soon be _actually_ drunk, and barely remembers to throw the bottles into the neighborhood trash can before stumbling his way up to Fake Aunt’s home.

_My abnormal behavior is just normal drunken nonsense_ is what Aziraphale is desperately trying to make the reasonable, logical, blatantly obvious conclusion Fake Aunt will come to. The easiest way to lie is to tell the truth. And oh, he will feel horrible tomorrow, but he curls up on the couch with the feeling of a successful mission, because he is _absolutely_ drunk.

_Well done, me_ , he thinks, and passes out.

Fake Aunt seems to believe that’s what happened. She has two glasses of water and a couple pills already waiting in front of him on the coffee table when Aziraphale wakes up. Fake Aunt is merciful enough to give him a couple hours before actually attempting communication.

“If he’s bothering you this much, I can talk to him,” Fake Aunt says, and is passably gentle about it.

Aziraphale shakes his head gingerly. “I think it got sorted last night.”

Fake Aunt nods, but then adds, “You remember that you’re allowed to date people so long as you report it, right?”

There’s an urge to get into an argument, but instead Aziraphale gives her a tight-lipped smile, and nods. “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind if I ever actually want to.”

She drops the topic, and doesn’t bring it up again.

Aziraphale continues his research, continues trying to create some sort of conspiracy he could point out and say _here, this is what you need me to do and you can send me, only me_.

Oddly enough, he finds an _actual_ pattern of wrongdoing.

It takes nearly two months to pick up on, but there’s a series of what seem like minor inconveniences throughout London but add up to something much more dangerous than most people realize: discontent. Frustration. There’s a spike in car accidents and assault crimes, there’s an increase in complaints about generally everything, there’s more robberies and fewer charitable donations, and it’s all traceable back to these little irritants that pop up almost like clockwork.

For the past three years, an irritating event has occurred at some point during the second to last week of the month, or early in the final week. It’s as if someone needs to repeat the minor chaos, like three weeks is as far as they can go without needing another chance at throwing London into minor chaos. Nobody seems to notice, which is reasonable. Everything is completely unrelated.

The events are things like almost every public transport being chronically late from 6am-8am one day, or a very strange day where no coffee was available for purchase for 2 hours and the entire city nearly rioted, and a few incidents of random roadways suddenly cut off for construction that was never scheduled or paid for and cycle through locations throughout the city. Last year in September was the worst, with a sewer back-up that...well, less said the better.

Aziraphale writes a report. He does this very carefully, and isn’t sure how he’ll explain _why_ he did it. The current plan is to say he was suspicious of some unusual patterns in the London accounts back at his desk job and took this opportunity to investigate more. The problem is, Aziraphale was never assigned London for his duties. Hopefully they won’t check. Maybe. He’s been a good loyal agent for over half a decade now, and there must be a level of trust with that, right? Maybe? God, he hopes there’s a level of trust.

This isn’t something he can get wrong, so he talks to Fake Aunt about it over a groggy shared breakfast. It’s already been five months since he spoke to Crowley, but _he cannot get this wrong._ Patience is a virtue Aziraphale has developed thoroughly.

Fake Aunt continues to keep him to his word regarding one party a week. Aziraphale grows increasingly talented at being either the center of attention or so unnoticed people yelp if he talks to them. Regardless, it means that at least once a week, they have a post-party morning where either one or both of them is dealing with a mild (or more) hangover. He waits for the perfect one of these mornings when Fake Aunt has a decent hangover while Aziraphale is feeling just fine. Ruthless and cutthroat as it may be, it leaves Fake Aunt in a weaker and more vulnerable position.

“If I wanted to report something to the people Upstairs, how would I do it?” Aziraphale asks.

Even feeling like misery made human with an angry tin can crushing her head, Fake Aunt still watches Aziraphale, full of a cautious yet dangerous intent. “Report on what?”

Oh.

She has a secret.

She’s also done a very good job keeping it, because Aziraphale has absolutely no clue what she’s worried Aziraphale is going to reveal.

“Well, when I had my old assignment, I saw some curious goings-on in London and started to investigate. I’ve technically been unemployed for the past few months, so I took the opportunity to do some research, and there are some conclusions I’d like to share with the higher-ups, see what they think,” Aziraphale says. But they both know the other is competent, so Aziraphale adds, “I have no idea what your secret is and I don’t care to find out. Honestly, I just want to go investigate what’s going on in London.”

Fake Aunt nods, and is still _cautious_ , but says, “I can submit it for you, or you can try to open communication avenues yourself.”

“So long as my name is on it and it’s obviously _my_ report, you’re free to submit it with this month’s required...proof of results...”

_Oh._

Oh, that would make quite a bit of sense for this entire London affair.

“Calling them reports is good enough,” Fake Aunt says, misunderstanding Aziraphale’s frown and silence. “I’d like to read it first.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, and gives her the printed copy that is covered in red revision pen marks, and goes and sits at the little bistro table on Fake Aunt’s balcony as he considers what might actually be happening in London.

Perhaps monthly occurrences aren’t due to someone needing to get their fix for mayhem. Perhaps they’re a monthly _obligation_. Maybe there’s a person whose job is to cause chaos and waits until the last moment to do it, like some sort of procrastinating demon. And maybe there is someone incredibly shady who has moved to and lived in London in a very similar timeframe.

Oh god, how does that work with the loopholes? He has to do his job but he has to make sure his friend leaves him alone except Aziraphale’s job would be to _keep track_ of Crowley but that’d be against Mother’s will but it’d be against Mother’s will to _not_ do it, oh no, oh _no-_

“This is good work,” Fake Aunt says from the balcony door. She always looks like a 1930s movie star, but it’s particularly pronounced when she’s wearing a long silk nightgown with her hair still in chaotic curls, remnants from the night before. Fake Aunt is also holding his report, clearly already more than halfway through. He’s not surprised. Most agents are good at that sort of thing. But Fake Aunt comes and joins him at the little table, staring intently at him. “Why’d you actually do this?”

Aziraphale frowns. “What do you mean?”

“The report reads like a mystery novel where someone tore the last third out. It’s _persuasive_ , and that’s wrong. You’re lucky I read it first,” Fake Aunt says, and tilts her head to the side. “You’re trying to be assigned to London. Why?”

He doesn’t know what the safest answer is, so he looks uncomfortable but finally says, “I’ve been remembering things.”

Fake Aunt goes very quiet, and very still. Aziraphale waits her out, does nothing but frown and fidget until Fake Aunt says, “You’re a legacy agent, aren’t you?” Aziraphale nods. “And the memories are from London?”

Aziraphale gives Fake Aunt a helpless shrug. “I think I could find answers in London, and that’s enough for me.”

It takes a long time, but finally Fake Aunt groans, leaning against the table and rubbing at her temples. “We’ll rewrite the report, and I’ll make sure you get to London,” Fake Aunt says, and Aziraphale audibly gasps in spite of himself. “ _But_ , in exchange, if I ask for a favor in the future, you do it. No questions asked.”

“I can give you something better, if you’re willing to make _no questions asked_ a mutual agreement,” Aziraphale says. When Fake Aunt gives him a questioning look but nods, Aziraphale smile, and walks back inside for a moment. He reemerges with a pen and paper, and writes down a number he knows by heart. “How would you like a modern miracle or two?”

Fake Aunt takes the offer.

Aziraphale calls the concierge line 5 minutes later to give her permissions to use whatever she needs exactly one time. His concierge actually laughs aloud when Aziraphale gives the security question of _What kind of sex does Aziraphale usually have_ and the answer is _Democratic_.

They rewrite the report together. With Fake Aunt’s guidance, Aziraphale realizes it should’ve been probably ¼ the size, and also needs to read like Aziraphale is only notifying Upstairs because that’s his job. According to Fake Aunt, that applies to _all_ reports.

Within the month, Aziraphale gets a letter informing him of his new assignment as a field agent in London. He reports Upstairs at the end of the week for more details.

Two days before his flight, Fake Aunt takes him for a drive far away from the city. And then she takes him for a walk past that, carrying a backpack for both of them. It’s nothing but farm fields and sky around them when Fake Aunt finally stops and turns to him, and then says, “Strip.”

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale asks.

Fake Aunt makes meaningful eye contact, but Aziraphale has absolutely no clue what the meaning is. But she says, “Please, _nephew_. I’ve got a robe in the bag for you.”

It is an absolute nightmare, but Aziraphale complies, blushing furiously as he strips down and then wraps up in the fluffy hotel robe Fake Aunt hands over after she’s done the same exact thing.

Fake Aunt shoves the clothing - including shoes, now replaced with pool flip-flops - in the bag, hurls it out into the field, and then turns to Aziraphale. She holds a hand out. “I’m Doreen. It’s nice to meet you.”

It’s so shocking that Aziraphale stands there staring at her hand for a good few seconds before he takes her hand and shakes it. Neither of them have used their real names. It shouldn’t be a surprise, but somehow it still feels very strange to know Fake Aunt as something beyond that. “Nice to meet you, I’m Aziraphale. What-”

“I’d like to be cremated, and I’d like you to be there,” says Fake Aunt, who is actually Doreen. “And I wanted to make sure you know that I don’t agree with the legacy agent thing. I truly believe in what we do in this organization, but what they do to your kind is still wrong, and I don’t even know all of it.”

Aziraphale frowns. “What do you mean?”

“We all do what Mother says, but not like legacies do,” Doreen says, and there’s a grimace. She’s also now just holding his hand. “I don’t know how it works, and I don’t know how to break it. I don’t know anyone who has. But you’re the first legacy I’ve ever heard say they’re remembering things. Maybe you’ll be the first to break Mother’s hold, too.”

There are an awful lot of things Aziraphale could reply with, particularly how he’s not actually remembering his pre-Mother childhood. Instead, this version focuses on, “Does _everyone_ know legacy agents have this...issue?”

Doreen laughs, and shakes her head. “Oh no. Very few realize it, most legacy agents included. I’m just very good at this job, better than Upstairs realizes. I’ve noticed the way your type obey Mother, instantly and indefinitely. It’s…” She takes a deep breath, and then looks at Aziraphale, hard ruthless eye contact. “It’s _wrong,_ Aziraphale. And it’s not your fault.”

“Well.” Aziraphale stares back at Doreen, not quite sure what to say. _It’s a little bit my fault,_ Aziraphale wants to say, because Aziraphale hadn’t _really_ tried to fight it when Mother was there, mostly because of the shock, but Doreen doesn’t seem like she’d take that well. “Thank you, I suppose?”

“If you need help, let me know and I’ll do my best,” Doreen says, and then smiles at him, a bit rakish. “And you should know that if they’ve worked this hard for you keep the accent for however long it’s been, they were probably going to station you in London, or England anyway. Maybe not as soon, but you put a lot of work into what was likely inevitable.”

Aziraphale takes a moment to feel like an idiot, because that is a _very_ good point. Doreen pats him on the side of the cheek, indulgent, and then starts flip flopping her way through the field, back towards the bag with their actual clothes in it.

40 hours later, Aziraphale flies to headquarters and meets with Upstairs, whose pre-mission briefing comes down to saying ‘we read your report, go take care of it’ and then handing him a standardized packet of How To Be A Field Agent information that’s so big it barely fits in a Manila envelope. It is very, very obvious that they don’t really care what’s happening, they just want reports on time and to be notified if anything worthwhile happens.

The mission length is listed as _indefinite._

Aziraphale tries not to smile. They might be suspicious otherwise.

And when he gets to London, things are astonishingly smooth. Aziraphale calls from a public phone in the airport after he lands, and by the time he’s actually in London, his concierge has hunted down a nice place that’s available. A taxi takes him straight there, and there’s a grumpy but polite landlord waiting with both a cell phone for Aziraphale and the key to the front door, and the place is...it’s _perfect_. It’s perfect in a way that leaves Aziraphale stunned to silence. 

Even at 9pm and empty, the place still somehow feels well-lit and warm. Maybe it’s the rich wood paneling, or the comfortable paint colors, or the delicate stained glass windows that cover most of the master bedroom’s windows, pinks and greens and yellows making a pattern he can’t quite make out without sunlight. The floor is hardwood, but not cold. The water runs clean and strong, and heats up quickly. All of the appliances are new, and it’s perfect. It is _perfect._

When he asks the landlord how much it is, the man throws his hands up, mutters something in a language Aziraphale doesn’t know, and just about slaps the key down in Aziraphale’s hand before walking off. Aziraphale puts his suitcase in the closet and calls the concierge line about it. The response is, “Oh, we gave bank account details before your tour.

He’s not going to question the efficiency, because that’s his concierge’s entire job. “Do I want to know how much it costs?” Aziraphale asks.

A pause. “If it helps, your account will be charged less than the other when it comes to housing per month.” Translation: _Crowley’s place costs more._

Oh, god. Aziraphale had been focusing so intently on getting to London that he’d almost forgotten about finding - no, no, _encountering_ Crowley. Somewhere. Aziraphale lets out a sigh, and looks around. The apartment takes up most of a townhouse, and it is also completely empty, so Aziraphale asks the concierge, “Is there somewhere I can get a bed, or at least a mattress?”

“We can take care of that! It’d be best to leave the apartment, though. You might get in the way,” his concierge says.

Aziraphale can’t really remember moving into anywhere, although there’s flashes of memories, a beige-brown carpet and the _heave_ of trying to move a couch in by himself. That’s all he has, though, and the more he lets himself think about this entire situation, the more he is infinitely grateful for the concierge. It’s been a while since Aziraphale had to worry about basic practicalities, like having a bed or a roof over his head. The organization provided, and Aziraphale hasn’t questioned.

“Then where should I go now?” Aziraphale asks. An anxious helplessness begins to swarm him now that he’s realizing how much _freedom_ he has. He doesn’t know what to do with it. There’s so much potential in front of him that actually making a choice seems...catastrophic. Monumental. He clears his throat, and tries to calm down. “I don’t...it’s been a while since I did this.”

“We’re here to help you, no matter what that help may be,” his concierge says, and he sounds oddly excited at the prospect. “Here’s a step in the right direction for you. There’s already a refrigerator, so go buy some groceries. Let me give you the address.”


End file.
